Faust
by Ryuujitsu
Summary: To save his classmate's soul, Bakura Ryou trades in his own and is quickly absorbed into the chaos of the underworld, a household pet of the eccentric fiend who shares his name. For Itooshi. Tendershipping and others. HIATUS UNTIL JUNE 2010.
1. deal with the devil

FAUST

yuugiou fanfiction

ryuujitsu & co.

[ chapter one: deal with the devil ]

Disclaimer: Saying we own Yuugiou is like saying Robert Smith is related to our former history teacher. (For all we know, he may be, but for the sake of this disclaimer and our teetering sanity, let's pretend he's not.)

_A/N: Dedicated to Itooshi. Happy (belated) Birthday, darling! Thy Futomi loves you._

ITFTC:

"buy me some fushigi Yuugi yao!"

- Yukari-chan (_yaoi_, Yuka-chan. . .not yao. _[[sweatdrop]]_)

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

"Coming through!"

Ryou barely had time to register the shout before a purple-haired girl—eleven or twelve and a temple attendant, by the looks of it—brandishing a black-lacquered calligraphy paintbrush, dashed by in a flurry of white robes, nearly bowling him over in her hurry. He stooped to retrieve the heavy silver cross that the girl had knocked out of his hand, frowning at her retreating back and then gasping as the cold metal of the cross flared against his sloppily placed shields, blistering his fingertips. He bit off a curse, draped the cross carefully around his neck, and tucked it under his shirt where it would be out of harm's way. All about him, the air was thick with magic and chatter, as various people marketed their wares and wove their spells. The cross was uncomfortably warm against his skin, humming with the power that twined through the bazaar.

_ "Oi, Bakura," grated in his ear, and he winced as a finger dug painfully between two of his ribs. Ryou turned to see Jounouchi Katsuya—known-thug, blonde and lean, school jacket tossed disdainfully over his left shoulder. His usual henchman, Honda Hiroto, was blessedly absent. _

_ "Jounouchi-kun," greeted Ryou._

_ His classmate frowned, eyebrows knitting together, and rubbed at the neon green Band-Aid decorating the bridge of his nose, shifting his feet uncomfortably. Finally, he said, quickly, "I need to talk to you."_

_ "Yes?" said Ryou, curiously. _

_ "You've got to promise, Bakura—shut up till I'm done. You've got to promise that you're not going to tell anyone." Jounouchi's eyebrows wrinkled together some more, and he looked quite fierce. He shoved his large hands into his pockets and glared down at Ryou with his russet-colored eyes. "You got that, Bakura? You understand what I'm saying?"_

_ "I won't tell a soul," Ryou promised, crossing his second and third fingers together and leaning forward in a conspiratory fashion. He wondered, vaguely, why Jounouchi flinched at his words._

_ "Good." Jounouchi grabbed Ryou by the sleeve and began dragging him forward, cutting through the crowd, threatening all the way. "If you tell just one person about this, you white-haired little punk, just _one_ person, I'm gonna have your head on a goddamn silver platter, and I don't give a _fuck_ about hellfire and brimstone—" _

_ Where is it? It's around here somewhere. I _know_ it is!_

He looked past two young women peddling strings of hovering glass beads and stopped by an elderly fisherman plying caged mermaids to scan the marketplace, searching for the obsidian-decorated stall of the demon auctioneer. The mermaids webbed fingers fluttered at him soundlessly as they blew kisses, and the old man guarding them leered crookedly—a toothless grimace—and jabbed at the imprisoned creatures.

"Mermaid, boy?"

"Ah—no thanks," said Ryou weakly, backing away.

The fisherman snorted. "Ye sure, boy? They're fine creatures, these beauties. Found 'em just off the mainland. Lovely talent. Born to please." The nearest mermaid, adorned with kelp and black pearls, toyed with her hair and watched them coyly through silvery lashes. "See? They don't know better than _to_ please." The fisherman grabbed handful of the siren's red-gold hair, grinning as she giggled and swatted at him playfully. "Ye'd be a fool to walk away, boy."

Ryou swallowed, feeling the mermaid's blue gaze boring into him, and then squared his shoulders. "I'm looking for the demon auctioneer," he said pointedly, taking a determined step toward the old man and his mermaids. "Do you know where his stand is?"

The old man gaped openly.

_ And that_,thought Ryou with grim satisfaction as he moved to another stall,_ ought to shut him up for a bit_.

"You're looking for the demon auctioneer?" said a woman smoothly from behind him. "Whatever for, might I ask?" Ryou jumped, startled, whirling about in the milling crowd to find the source of the voice. The speaker looked to be in her early twenties, with wide, kohl-painted blue eyes not unlike that of the mermaids in the previous stall and a sheet of jet black hair that curved neatly over bare, bronzed shoulders. She wore gold, and a great deal of it, but not tastelessly—strange golden eyes graced her throat and brow while similar circlets of gold adorned her linen garb and bedecked her arms and ankles. "Isis Ishtal," she said, thin-lipped and unsmiling. "I am of the demonic caste."

"Bakura Ryou," said Ryou softly, bowing low. He recognized the energy that seemed to center around her necklace. The cross pulsed hotly. _A Seer. Upper caste, no doubt, and far older than she looks. And, Kami-sama—she's powerful. She could crush this entire marketplace without a second thought. _"And yes, I'm looking for the demon auctioneer. I have business with him."

"Oh?" Her eyes weren't as frosty for a moment. She seemed almost. . .amused? "I do believe _she_ is on a lunch break at the moment. But I'll be glad to lead you to _her_ stall, and we will let _her_ deal with you."

_ Her? She? A _female_ auctioneer? That's almost unheard of!_

"Kami-sama," Ryou said, in dismayed surprise. His left hand strayed to the cross under his sweater. "I'm sorry. I didn't know the demonic caste had female auctioneers."

Isis frowned down at him. "We don't, normally," she said severely, pressing her lips together until they whitened. "But as you may have heard, the underworld is in utter turmoil. What little law we have left at the moment is pockmarked with loopholes. Our kind does what it can to survive. Female auctioneers will suffice until order is restored. Come along."

Isis Ishtal didn't walk, Ryou reflected as he trailed cautiously after her, she _floated_.

The demon auctioneer's stall was a glittering mass of black. Black velvet swathed the ground and onyx spires hung in ropes from the canopy; a crow's quill and an obsidian inkwell rested on a black-painted desk. In sharp contrast to the darkness, messily-stacked parchment was scattered about the stall, piled up in corners and lining the walls. Ryou shivered as he saw the signatures—written in blood.

"Before I leave you," said Isis, pulling him aside. "Have you seen a human boy your age, tanned, with light blonde hair and lavender blue eyes? He calls himself Malik el-Sakr."

Ryou blinked and shook his head wordlessly.

"Shaitan below! My brother is going to have a fit." Isis sighed in annoyance, her nostrils flaring. "I'll be seeing you soon, then. Hellfire guide you." Her form began to flicker.

"Wait—" Ryou called, but she was gone.

The cross beat frantically against his chest. "H-hello?" he said, scanning the gloomy expanse of the stall for any sign of movement. Without warning, the auctioneer appeared before him, glimmering into view with a complicated curtsy.

"Kujaku Mai, demonic auctioneer at your service!" She smiled whitely, before exclaiming, "Oooh, green eyes!" Ryou could see how Isis would disapprove—the auctioneer was very well-proportioned and evidently not afraid to flaunt it; she was decked from head to toe in slick, wine-colored leather, from her vest to her knee-high heeled boots. Sun-yellow hair tumbled about her shoulders and back in waves as she moved.

The auctioneer put a daintily manicured hand under Ryou's chin and peered at him through a gold-chained monocle, sharpened fingernails digging into his neck. "I haven't had a soul with green eyes since I don't know when." Her voice was low and throaty.

"A-anou. . ." stammered Ryou, blushing to the tips of his ears. He'd never had anyone study him so closely.

"Hey, kiddo," she said, plum-hued eyes narrowing as she paced around him, looking him over appraisingly. "I don't remember seeing you, and as far as I know, you're not in Keith's records. Exactly _what_ are you doing down at this end of the bazaar?"

"I'm here," said Ryou in a voice that, miraculously, didn't waver, "to exchange my soul for Jounouchi Katsuya's."

Mai lowered her monocle. "Are you absolutely sure 'bout this, kiddo?" she said quietly. "Once it's done, it's done, and there's no way to reverse it unless some other idiot soul decides to trade itself in for yours. I know you've got a better understanding of the workings of things around here than most souls, but you're still relatively naïve compared to the rest of us. I can't guarantee what kind of demon will buy you or how they'll treat you later. And since you're only exchanging, you won't be getting the worldly benefits that other souls receive. Classic disclaimer," she added, pursing her lips thoughtfully. "Just want you to know what you're getting your soul into."

Ryou fingered the cross tentatively. "I know," he said softly. "But I have to do this. Jounouchi has a sister to look after, and I don't. So free his soul from its contract and take mine instead. You're allowed to do that, and I'm completely willing to trade mine in."

Mai ruffled his hair. "You're a sweet kid, you know that? Hold on a sec while I get a form." She bent over at the hip and shuffled through the nearest heap of scrolls, the curves of her backside quite obvious through her miniskirt. "Now. . ._where_. . .did I put that blessed list. . .oh, that's right. I stuck it here—" she appeared to be sifting through thin air before pulling out a thick roll of parchment "—for safekeeping." She grabbed a crumpled form from another bundle and tossed the crow's feather at him. "Read it through carefully, kiddo, and then sign at the dotted line if you still want to go through with this. Don't bother with ink."

"Make it look as though it was my fault," said Ryou suddenly. "Like I got hit by a car on the way back from school because I was trying to impress a girl, or something like that. Something that won't drag anyone else into this."

"Suicide work for you?" said Mai, her brow furrowing. She conjured up another quill to write with.

Ryou nodded gratefully. "That's fine. Thanks."

She nodded absently and thrust a contract paper at him. The crinkled parchment was thick, like vellum, and the bluish sheen of the intricate script showed that the document had been recently printed. In bold, Gothic lettering across the top of the sheet were the words 'SOUL EXCHANGE CONTRACT.'

_ The following is an agreement between Bakura Ryou, human, and Kujaku Mai, demonic auctioneer. _

_ In exchange for the release of Jounouchi Katsuya's soul from its contract, Bakura Ryou agrees to:_

_1. Allow his soul to be separated from his body and auctioned to the highest bidder._

_2. Allow his physical death in the human world to be recorded as suicide._

_3. Obey his keeper fully._

_4. No other demands._

_ In exchange for Bakura Ryou's soul, Kujaku Mai agrees to:_

_1. Release Jounouchi Katsuya's soul from its contract._

_2. Record Bakura Ryou's physical death in the human world as suicide. [See details below.]_

_3. No other demands._

_4. No other demands._

_ Bakura Ryou will be found by his father unconscious in his bedroom, six hours after taking fourteen sleeping pills. He will be pronounced dead at the hospital. There will be no note. No other persons will be associated with his death, and police will label his death as suicide, closing the investigation two days before his burial._

_ After the transaction has occurred, the following conditions apply:_

_1. The demonic soul-market will be inaccessible to Jounouchi Katsuya's soul once it is released from its contract._

_2. Bakura Ryou's soul is to fully obey all commands of its keeper, without protest or insubordination._

_3. Bakura Ryou's soul is indefinitely owned by its keeper; it cannot be borrowed or loaned without special permission from the High Courts._

_4. Bakura Ryou's soul is not to make contact with the human world without the permission of its keeper. _

_5. Bakura Ryou's soul is not to make contact with the demonic underworld without the permission of its keeper._

_6. Bakura Ryou's soul may be freed from bondage in two ways:_

_a) A third party, human, agrees to exchange its soul for Bakura Ryou's._

_b) Bakura Ryou's keeper, demonic, agrees to free the soul in question._

_ If conditions 6a and/or 6b are accessed and Bakura Ryou's soul is to be freed by either method, no payment may be given to the soul to compensate for its servitude._

_ If the above conditions with the exception of 1 are violated in any way by the soul or its keeper, both soul and keeper will be held accountable. The contract will not be terminated; Bakura Ryou's soul will be removed from its current keeper and auctioned until a suitable keeper is found._

_Disclaimer: The demonic soul-market is in no way responsible for treatment of a soul after its sale. Any grievances against a keeper must be mediated by a third party and reviewed by the High Courts. With no reason should a soul retaliate on its own. Consequences to such a retaliation will be dire and swift._

_I, , the soul in question, have read the above terms and conditions as well as the disclaimer. I agree fully to all terms and conditions._

_ Soul's signature: _

_ Demonic Auctioneer's signature:_

_Contract signed the twenty-second of June, in the human year nineteen-hundred and ninety-seven._

Without hesitation, Ryou slashed the quill across his palm and dipped the point in the resulting gash. He bit his lip, and, raising the bloodied quill, scratched out his name onto the parchment. When he finished, Mai's signature—a delicate, mauve-colored script with many flourishes—danced across the lower bar. The auctioneer hadn't lifted a finger.

Ryou, trembling, let quill and contract slip from his fingers and glanced nervously at Mai, who was scribbling something in her records.

"Just have a seat, kiddo," she said, without looking up. "Keith should have felt that; he'll be here soon. And if he's not, he's more of a drunken knucklehead than I took him for initially."

Feeling lightheaded, Ryou grasped a corner of the desk to steady himself before another wave of dizziness forced him to sink to the ground. The air seemed to be swimming before his eyes—Mai's shapely form dimmed and brightened and the silence of the bazaar was deafening. There was a dull explosion that he felt rather than heard—a sucker punch to his rib cage—before a hand tilted his chin up roughly, and he blinked hazily into ice blue eyes as alcohol-stained breath flooded his nostrils.

"Mmm, green eyes. Nice." The man's voice was hoarse and somewhat slurred. "This the one, baby?"

"Yeah, that's him. Keith, if you bang him up too much you're gonna be hearing from me. Kid, this is Keith, my lovely drunk of a partner," said Mai, seemingly from a long way off. "He'll be the one taking you down."

"Ouch, that's painful," said Keith with a harsh bark of laughter, twisting a strand of Ryou's silvery hair between his fingers. "I'm devastated, Mai. Shot through the heart." He snorted good-naturedly and added in a sing-song-y tone, "And you're too late. You give love a bad—"

Mai swatted at him impatiently. "_I'm _late? Get moving, before you miss the auction, ya big oaf."

"Love you too, baby," said Keith. He unceremoniously hauled the boy to his feet, his hand closing like an iron around Ryou's limp wrist. Ryou choked in agony; against his now translucent skin, the cross and Keith's fingers were like fiery coals. The male auctioneer laughed and tightened his grasp. "You'll get used to it. Soul-skin's a bit sensitive right after the separation; it'll go away. C'mon, green-eyed soul, you heard what the lady said."

_ It. . .it _hurts_. . .it isn't supposed to _hurt_. . .not like this. . ._

Eyes swimming with tears, Ryou scrabbled desperately with his free hand at the source of pain—the cross. The silver had burned through his sweater and into his flesh, leaving a livid, crucifix-shaped mark. _I'm dying. . .it hurts. . .it _hurts With a strangled sob, he wrenched the cross from his neck and threw it to the ground, panting wretchedly as the pain diminished.

Keith chuckled at his leaking eyes. "Stupid soul. What'd you bring a cross for? God doesn't like what we do down there, don't you know?"

Ryou stared blearily into the man's grinning face. He could feel the heat from the crucifix-brand, the hot tears trickling down his cheeks, the warm blood oozing from his blistered skin, Keith's cold blue eyes boring into him. . .

_ Kami-sama—_

"Of course I know," he whispered, and fainted dead away.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Ryou jerked upright, his left hand clawing blindly at the air in front of him, tinkling oddly. Wildly, he glanced about, eyes wide and panicked. It was dark, but with the light from the lamp dangling overhead, he could still see the outline of the cart he was riding in. Keith's back was to him; the male auctioneer appeared to be snoring drunkenly as the three-legged, mule-like creature that was pulling the cart trudged devoutly on. Closer to his face were roughly-hewn bamboo poles, which, arranged in a crisscrossing pattern, cast mocking, crucifix-shaped shadows all around him. The cage had been built intentionally small; Ryou could easily see, even in the dark, that he would have to crawl if he wanted to move.

_ Bloody hell. I fainted._

There were three other forms lying asleep and shackled around him—two were fairly human in size and appearance, the third was quite small and thin, with startlingly long, pointed ears. _An elf?_ He leaned in for a better look and gagged as icy metal bit into his neck, forcing him to lie back. Slowly, disbelievingly, Ryou reached up and felt the loose fetter around his throat—the foreign, cold ache, the keyhole just below his Adam's apple, the circular-linked iron chains that led to a thick staple—the similar manacles that bound his wrists.

He inhaled sharply. The cross-shaped brand throbbed.

The human nearest him, a dark-skinned girl with shoulder-length, sun-spun hair that seemed to glow in the faint lamplight, opened a lavender eye. "Keep it down, _gha'bi,_" she said, in an utterly unfeminine voice. Ryou jumped and then blushed with the realization—the blonde girl was in fact a blonde boy. He looked a bit like an Aussie surfer, Ryou thought, with his bleached, ice-yellow hair and bronzed complexion. It wasn't difficult to see him standing on a beach with a surfboard under his arm and the sea behind him. Stranger still, the boy seemed incredibly familiar.

And yet, Ryou could have sworn he'd never seen anyone of that particular coloring before.

_ 'Have you seen a human boy your age, tanned, with light blonde hair and lavender blue eyes? He calls himself Malik.' _It connected then. Isis Ishtal had been looking for this boy.

"Malik?" said Ryou in surprise, and it was the boy's turn to jump.

Malik frowned suspiciously, golden eyebrows knitting together. "How do you know my name? I don't know yours. I've never seen you before in my life." He strained against his restraints and moved forward with a clatter, squinting at Ryou.

"It _is_ you!" said Ryou triumphantly. "There was a demon was looking for you in the marketplace earlier," he continued. "Sometime this morning. Or yesterday morning, depending on how long I've been unconscious."

"Really?" said Malik excitedly, his entire face lighting as he smiled widely. "Marikku was looking for me?"

"Marikku?" said Ryou, in confusion. He shook his snowy head, hair waving in white flurries. "No, it was Isis Ishtal, a Seer from the upper demonic caste. She asked me if I'd seen you or not. She seemed kind of worried, now that I think about it," he added hastily, as he saw Malik's face fall.

Malik muttered a curse, picking at the flimsy linen shift he was wearing. His accent was fairly thick and extremely foreign. "Forget Marikku, the stupid bastard. What's your name, pretty-boy?"

"Ryou," said Ryou obligingly, bowing his head as far as the fetters would allow. "Bakura Ryou."

Malik's left eye widened substantially (the right remained narrowed in suspicion), and his mouth dropped open. There was a slight fear in his voice as he hissed, "Bakura? _Bakura_? You're related to Bakura? _The_ Bakura? What the hell are you doing down here selling your soul, then, by Allah?! You don't need anything!"

"Er?" said Ryou. He was still trying to be helpful, but was now mostly confused. "I traded my soul in for someone else's. . .and my father's name is Bakura Yaten, but. . ."

The blonde swore again in his strange language, right eye twitching relentlessly. "Don't play the innocent, pretty-boy. Bakura as in _Ankh_'s Bakura, Bakura as in strawberry vodka Bakura, Bakura as in the guy who never pays his rent Bakura, Bakura as in—you really have no idea what I'm talking about, do you?"

Ryou shook his head, listening to the chains as they clanked. "Not a single bloody clue."

"Huh." He swore once more, an incredulous stream of Arabic—or that's what Ryou thought it was Malik was swearing in—curses; angry guttural sounds that seemed to melt endlessly into each other. "Small fucking world. Second highest caste, and he's got the same name as a bleeding-heart mortal. Go figure."

_ He sounds. . .upset. Just a teensy-weensy bit._

Ryou fiddled around with the chain links and watched as the lantern bobbed up and down. "Why are you here?" he said, at length, poking his finger at the keyhole of his wrist manacle. "You don't. . .seem the type. To sell your soul, I mean."

"None of your business." Malik was apparently fond of his swear words; he rattled off another few with increasing rapidity.

Ryou frowned. "Fine."

"But if you must know, my demon in flaming obsidian armor will ride up on his lovely, three-headed, fire-breathing Hydra and rescue me from this rent-a-dungeon-on-wheels," said Malik confidently, making less and less sense by the minute. He tacked on an unnecessary curse and grinned lopsidedly at Ryou. "Translation: I'll be out of here soon."

_ Translation, _thought Ryou, _you're a loony._

"So, pretty-boy," drawled Malik, leaning forward and dragging his left index finger down Ryou's arm, "why are you _really_ here? You're not all human, I can tell. Undercover work, is it? Did the Holier-than-Thou angels send you?"

HTT was a not-so-secret angelic middle caste organization that regularly sent angels to cause mischief and general chaos amongst the demonic ranks. They weren't needed at the moment, of course, because the demonic underworld was generating enough mischief and general chaos on its own. Though several former HTT members were still renowned (or, rather, infamous) for their particularly daring stunts, HTT was, increasingly, frowned upon by both sides as a trouble-making, up-to-no-good establishment. It had been recruit-less for years, a dying movement in the angelic castes. The middle caste was a proud sect, and its refusal to hire any angels in castes upper or lower, despite HTT's dwindling numbers, had been considered an inevitable suicide.

Ryou frowned. "Angels would never willingly work with a witchling, much less hire one. I'm here because my friend couldn't afford to spend eternity serving someone, and I could. That's all."

"Oooh, a witchling!" said Malik excitedly, shuffling closer on his hands and knees. His eyes were round and bright in the flickering glow. "Can you do any basics?"

The silver-haired boy shook his head slowly. "No, I'm afraid not. The woman who was to guide me passed away while I was still very young. I have the blood and the potential, I suppose, but no proper training. It's possible that I'd have had the opportunity to find another Teacher before my eighteenth birthday, but, considering the current circumstances. . ." He trailed off, waving his hand awkwardly.

_ I'm going to be sold. I'm going to belong to someone. For eternity. And I really should have thought about this before I went and signed my soul away. Blargh. _

"Oh. That sucks," said Malik eloquently. He grinned, showing oddly sharpened canines. "I was supposed to be a nice, normal kid. Then I ran in with a vampire a few years back—don't look at me like that, he didn't bite me—and I'm not so nice and normal anymore. My father threw a fit," he said, and shrugged. "But the old man croaked a year ago."

"A vampire?" said Ryou, with interest.

"Yeah," said Malik. "My sister's boyfriend turned out to be a bloodsucker. A real nice guy and everything, but his ultimate goal was to eat her—don't know why; I obviously am the tastier sibling—so he had to go. Wooden stakes are very handy against vamps, doncha know. It was kind of sad, since he was a looker, that one. Eshe-fatima and I fought over him for a long time before we found out." He laughed. "Eh, don't mind me. I'm not thinking straight. Well, as straight as I should be."

Ryou felt his lips curving despite himself. Malik was a foul-mouthed, back-talking smart-aleck, but his rough, cheerful sarcasm had helped greatly to ease the bleak mood.

"I hope your keeper is a good one," Ryou said quietly. "I really do."

Malik smiled softly, his blue eyes glowing. "Marikku?" he grumbled, in fond exasperation as he picked at his shift. "The fucking bastard is crazy as hell, but I know he'd never hurt me."

Ryou looked at Malik's dreaming, gloating face and his bright eyes, and knew he wasn't lying.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

It was light when the rickety cart at last rolled to a halt, in front of a wooden platform where a tumultuous crowd had already gathered. Centered in a leafy glade still damp with morning dew, the area looked more like something out of a swashbuckling film than the actual horror it was.

Ryou woke with a start, as Keith, who had crawled into the cage, forced his head back to unlock the main fetter around his throat and the shackles on his feet. In front of him, Malik was rubbing circulation back into his neck and ankles, cursing violently as the manacles around his hands pounded into his shins. The elf, who was short enough to be able to stand and stretch within the confines of the cage, was pulling at its chains impatiently. To his left, the other human, a woman with graying hair, was looking at Keith expectantly as he edged toward them on his hands and knees, key-rings hanging from his pockets.

Ryou bit his lip as cold air struck his newly-exposed skin. The fetters had been burning uncomfortably all night, but he sorely missed their heat now.

"You're going in order of contract," Keith grunted, moving crab-like out of the cage and then standing. He smiled sardonically, gesturing at the woman. "Ladies first. Then you, elf. Blondie, you're next, followed by little green eyes over there. Get up on the platform, and do it quickly, or you're bound to get snatched. If you get snatched, tough. Suck it up. I have a freakin' jackhammer in my skull, so I'm not in the mood to argue. Got it? Good. Go."

He stepped back to allow the woman to climb out by herself, then grabbed her shoulder forcibly and steered her onto the platform. The throng churned and seethed forward, before falling ominously silent. Reddened eyes honed in with deadly accuracy on auctioneer and soul, and glared.

The woman stood with her shoulders hunched and her head bowed as Keith sprinted through a simple disclaimer. "After you go through the whole buying process, make sure you check through your new soul's contract and don't violate anything in it, or the High Courts are really gonna fuck you up, yadda, yadda, yadda, and so on. You've all heard this shit before, I'm sure, but here's a refresher for those with memory-loss and the newbies. Newbies, what the fuck are you doing here, anyway? Going on: You want something, just scream out whatever the hell you wanna bet. If it's high enough and no one else challenges, the soul's yours. You come over, pay me, take the soul and run off happily into the sunset.

"This lovely lady," he continued, dropping a casual arm around the woman's shoulders, "sold her soul for wealth and fame. That's nothing new and the motives are pretty damn stupid, if you ask me. She needs a bit of cleaning up, but she'll serve whatever purpose you put her to, so she's is going for a starter of a round six-six-six."

"Inflation," whispered Malik at Ryou. Ryou, watching the process with wide eyes, 'oh'-ed and nodded.

"Any takers?" prodded Keith, eyeing the muttering crowd nervously. "None at all? Alright, alright, you guys win. I'll drop the price. Let's put it at three-three-three. Half the price! C'mon, we have to have some takers! Three-three-three!"

"Two hundred and a mermaid's tail!" someone shouted. Keith smiled; the woman flinched and let out a quiet sob.

"Two hundred and a mermaid's tail," the auctioneer said loudly. "Any challengers to that bid? Can I make it two hundred fifty a mermaid's tail? Two hundred and twelve pixie wings? Or three-three-three? C'mon, fellows! You can't let yourselves be out-bidded by just anyone!"

The masses broiled. Demons yelled bids, shoved at each other to get to the front, out of sheer want to keep up the competition. Keith had said the magic words.

"Pixie wings by the dozen!"

"Two hundred severs and a red-scaled tail!"

"I have a unicorn horn! Fifty severs and a horn!"

Keith's smile broadened and he leaned forward, squinting at the near-rioting horde. "Who's got the two hundred sever, and the tail? I _do _like the sound of that. Two hundred sever makes good drinking money, and my girl might just decide to stay with me for a tail like that!" The pack roared with laughter. Keith forced the woman to the edge of the platform, and she screamed as the demon who had purchased her, a burly giant of a male, took her by the ankles. "Pay up and she's yours!"

"Th-that's barbaric!" spluttered Ryou indignantly, pressing his face against the bars so he could get a better look.

Malik rolled his eyes. "This is the demonic underworld, _gha'bi_. What the hell are you expecting the keeper to do, shower the lady with roses, give her a pretty golden ring and marry her while everyone else waves and cheers and blows soapy bubbles and throws bird-choking rice?"

Ryou blinked. "Er. . .no, not exactly, thanks."

It was the elf's turn. Shaking, it crawled from the cage, took one long, lingering glance at the forest, and then dashed up the platform to where Keith was standing, narrowly avoiding the clawed hands that grabbed at its limbs.

"This little fellow," said Keith, with a feral smile, "is an escape artist. He's run away a total of six times from a total of five keepers, and is probably planning to make this his seventh run. He's going to be quite a challenge for anyone—that's obvious. The question is, are you up to that challenge? Because of his extraordinary record, we're going to sell him at an all time low with an _insurance policy_—this guy is going for fifty severs! It's a deal you _can't_ lose!" He shoved the elf forward a few paces. "Do we have any starting bids?"

The resulting bellow was deafening. As the noise crescendo-ed, Ryou heard Malik gasp, and, seconds later, felt the other boy elbowing his ribs insistently.

"What?" he hissed, as silently as possible to avoid drawing the wrong attention to the cage. It was an uncomfortable truth that escape from a mob of raging demons was very unlikely, especially in chains. The crowd was almost overwhelmed with bloodlust; Ryou had the feeling that he might be torn apart when it was his turn to mount the platform.

"That's Marikku!" Malik crowed, jabbing Ryou's stomach again for good measure.

"Shh!" said Ryou nervously, and then, "Where?"

He followed Malik's pointing finger, looking past a tubby demon in a chef's hat to a tall, cloaked figure was watching the bidding quietly. "Marikku," as Malik called him, was lean and dark and swathed in a robe of violet-black, with a mass of spiky yellow hair that looked like something out of DBZ.

He wasn't remarkably good-looking, Ryou thought, but the resemblance he bore to Malik was frightening. Even from a distance, Ryou could see the same fiercely-blue eyes, lined in the same smoky black kohl, lips twisted in the same ironic smile.

"He came!" Malik shrilled, clapping his hands in delight. "He came! I was so scared he wouldn't, the Allah-forsaken son of a. . ." he broke into a torrent of jubilant expletives.

_ So that's Marikku. . .I've heard so many _wonderful_ things about hi—oh, my. Who is _that

Until that particular moment, Ryou had always considered himself fairly. . .well, straight. Then he made eye contact with the lovely specimen of demon standing next to Marikku—a ghostly-pale, silver-haired apparition in a worn traveler's mantle, with a dusky garnet gaze that hinted at midnight deviltry and other delectably forbidden things. _Screw coherent, poetic descriptions. There's a word for this. Pretty._ _Yes, that's the word. Mmm, so pretty._ _Buy me. I'm yours._

"Malik, who's—" he began.

"Hey, blondie! Get your ass up here!" Keith snarled, effectively breaking Ryou's reverie into three pieces.

"Okie-dokie!" said Malik cheerfully, kissing Ryou on both cheeks. "Here I go. It was nice knowin' ya, Bakura Ryou. Allah bless and protect you, and I hope _your _keeper is a real sweetheart, like me! Not. . .anywho, see you later, babe."

_ Jeez, Malik. . ._

"'Bai," said Ryou softly. "Good luck," he added, and then Malik eased gently out of the cage. Ryou watched with fraying nerves as Malik made a mad sprint past the groping hands, sighing in relief as the boy sauntered boldly onto the platform. Malik's eyes were fixed on Marikku.

"Now, isn't this a cute kid?" said Keith, patting Malik's head. "He's got spirit and spunk for the breaking, and he ain't that ugly, either. This is his first contract, and he did it to resurrect some vamp. . .'cause he's such a beaut, he's going for one thousand severs, or something of the equivalent. . .we'll take tails, horns, hooves, scales, wings, roc's feathers, et cetera, et cetera. Oooh, basic regulation for this guy. Since he's worth so damn much, bidders can only go up on increments of five hundred! So don't be skimpy and give me three severs or some shit like that! Who's up for it?"

The bids started up almost immediately, but some demons had begun to leave; apparently one thousand was a hefty sum for even those with heavy purses.

"One thousand!"

"One thousand five hundred!"

"Two thousand! Two thousand and a set of pixie wings!"

On the platform, Malik's clenched fists were bleeding. Ryou, chewing on the knuckle of his index finger, glanced anxiously at Marikku. The demon hadn't moved; he stood stony-faced with his silvery companion, watching as the swarm shrieked. _Oh, Kami-sama! Don't tell me he's dead broke. Don't tell me he's low on spending money. Come on, demon, _bid!

"Three thousand five hundred and a swansong!"

_ "Four thousand five hundred."_

Heads turned. Ryou bit through his knuckle. The demon who had spoken was seating in a red palanquin carried by four sweating demons and attended by ten others—eight androgynous, ethereal souls, two burly ones. He was dressed elegantly in a maroon business suit, with shoulder-length, graying hair and a false eye. He was also very obviously not Marikku.

Marikku started, snarling, eyes flashing. "Five thousand!" he growled. His voice echoed over the silence that had fallen.

"Oh my," said the demon slowly, tugging at his cuffs. He stepped down from the palanquin. "It does appear that I have some competition! Very well then, I'll humor you. Five thousand five hundred severs!"

"Six thousand!" Marikku was sweating.

_ Oh no oh no oh no. Okay, so he's got enough money, but he can't go against this guy! _Ryou had forgotten that he was next on the platform. He licked away the blood welling from his skin and stared in horror at the scene that was unfolding. Malik had twisted the hem of his linen shift to shreds and had started on the sleeves, shifting from foot to foot apprehensively.

"Six thousand five hundred."

"Seven thousand!"

The gray-haired demon developed a slight twitch around his glass eye. "Stubborn child, aren't you?" he said disdainfully, rubbing his cheekbone. "Seven thousand five hundred."

"Eight thousand severs!" Marikku's voice was shaking. _He's reaching his limit_, Ryou realized. _He only has so much. . .and this other man has so much more. . .oh, Kami-sama. No. _

"Eight thousand five hundred," said the other demon lazily.

"Nine thousand!"

"Nine thousand five hundred severs."

"_Ten thousand!"_

_ Marikku. Marikku. Marikku. Marikku. Marikku._ The blood from Ryou's knuckle was trickling down his chin. He ignored it, blinking furiously to clear the burning from his eyes, swallowing to clear the ache from his throat. _Let Marikku win! This other demon has to give up. . ._

"You _are_ an annoying little whelp, boy." The demon smiled, and held out a massive feather that glittered like a black diamond. "Ten thousand severs, and this delightful roc's feather. See how the sun shines on it?"

Marikku's stare was dark with fury. Teeth clenched, he turned abruptly and stalked away from the platform, his cloak billowing out behind him.

Malik fell to his knees, eyes wide and disbelieving.

It was Keith who broke the stunned quiet. "M-milord Pegasus!" he stammered. "It's a rare and undeserved pleasure to share your fine company this morning—it—I—_ten thousand severs!_ Shaitan below! He's yours, lord! He's yours, take him—anything for you, milord! T-ten thousand! _Ten thousand! _Shaitan below!" And he lapsed into silence once again.

"Ma. . .rikku. . .?" said Malik, stretching his hand toward the demon's retreating back. "Marikku?"

Pegasus fluttered his right hand at Keith. "Yes, yes, it's been a great pleasure dealing with you as well, Keith-boy, but I'm afraid I _must_ be going now. The company calls, don't you know." Two of the demons who had been bearing the palanquin stepped forward, one handing Keith the promised sum while the other reached over the platform to take hold of Malik's arms.

Ryou could feel bitter tears dripping into his sweater. _No. . .Malik. . ._

"_Marikku!_" The blonde demon heard Malik's desperate scream and paused in his incensed stride. He didn't turn back. A moment later, he was gone from sight, and Malik had been loaded unceremoniously into the palanquin.

Wiping at the tears that blurred his vision, Ryou surveyed the dumbfounded crowd and wondered if he could make a break for it. Since most demons were sensitive to magical changes, casting one of the few charms he could manipulate would only draw unwanted attention to him. It wouldn't have mattered, he realized. Keith was watching him closely, pausing to give the assembly time to pull itself together before he called Ryou up to the platform. Ryou allowed himself one last sniffle as he caught Keith's eye, then, lifting his chin, slipped unhurriedly from the cage.

The dash from the wagon to the platform was a good ten or eleven demon-packed meters at most, but the fiends' eyes were set on Pegasus's vanishing palanquin, and Ryou reached the platform without event.

"Took you long enough," muttered Keith distantly. Ryou could practically see the gears in the demon's mind working, trying to calculate how many drinks ten thousand severs could buy.

Gradually, the crowd composed itself, turning back to the platform, beginning to eye Ryou like one might eye a particularly enticing dessert.

Keith cleared his throat twice and gave himself a little shake, and then gripped Ryou's shoulders tightly with both hands. "I wouldn't say I was saving the best for last," he quipped, voice still raspy, "but this kid isn't bad, and almost as pretty as the last soul. So he's a bit quieter and maybe even cuter, and we haven't had a soul with green eyes in _ages_. There's a lot going for this kid. He traded his soul in for another, which automatically raises the price by fifty severs. This sweetheart is going for a whopping eight hundred fifty. Since he's so special, the only equivalents we're taking are ghostsongs and faerie grave dirt."

"Eight-fifty," said someone immediately.

"Nine hundred!"

"I'll give you six hundred and a ghostsong!"

_ At least I know what I'm worth_, thought Ryou scathingly. He shivered despite himself and tried to move away from the edge of the platform, but Keith's hands kept him there. The platform was three meters above the ground, balanced precariously on wooden stilts and not much of a fall. Standing with his toes curled over the edge, Ryou had the crazy urge to rip out of Keith's hold, jump, and let the crowd tear him to pieces.

"Three hundred severs and five crates of grave dirt." The words were almost inaudible. There was ice in that voice.

For the second time that morning, heads turned. Demons exclaimed. Heart drumming in his throat, Ryou found himself looking at the blood-eyed vision.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

"_Bakura?_" Keith's grip went slack along with his mouth and Ryou clawed frantically to regain equilibrium. Once he had reeled back a sufficient distance from the edge of the platform, he turned to have a better look at the silver-haired demon.

The ragged traveler's cloak was dark brown and patched in several places with absurdly colored swatches of cloth—blue-and-orange polka dots littered a section of the left sleeve, purple stripes held the stitches on the hood together; there was even a bit of pink down by the fraying hem. The demon had a wild mess of silver-white hair, shocks of which protruded from under a vividly red bandana. A long gold chain had been thrown haphazardly over the bandana and looped thrice over the demon's head and shoulders; another coiled down his right arm. Glittering beneath the shabby cloak were several golden bangles and armbands.

Malik's voice drifted in Ryou's mind. _'Don't play the innocent, pretty-boy. Bakura as in _Ankh_'s Bakura, Bakura as in strawberry vodka Bakura, Bakura as in the guy who never pays his rent Bakura, Bakura as in—you really have no idea what I'm talking about, do you?'_

"Surprised to see me, Keith?" The red eyes flared, but the demon's tone was one of biting cold. "You shouldn't be. And I've changed my mind. Six crates. I'll take the kid."

Keith scowled, finding his voice. "Depends on if you've got any other challengers, Bakura." He looked around, as if expecting to see another demon waving around eight-fifty and a box of grave dirt. He saw none. The demons were all staring at Bakura with some sort of awe, as if they, too, couldn't believe he was standing amongst them. The silence was deafening, and Keith's scowl deepened.

Bakura's smile was slow and unpleasant. Abnormally long canines curved over pink lips. "I doubt it. Six crates."

Ryou swallowed hard and crossed his fingers behind his back. _Oh Kami-sama please please please please please please please please—_

"Maybe I want him for myself," said Keith lamely, at length. He could use the dirt, he knew, but this was Bakura, and sometimes pride went before money. This was one of those times. . .right?

"Six crates," Bakura repeated, dangling the offer in front of Keith's nose—water to a man dying of thirst.

"Shaitan bless it, Shaitan bless it, okay." Keith broke and gave Ryou a hefty shove forward. Flushing to his ears, the auctioneer ground out, "He's yours. Pay up and he's yours, okay? _Bless it!_"

Ryou screeched as he overbalanced and tumbled from the platform, landing in an undignified heap. The crowd jerked away from him like he was infected with an incurable disease. He sat with demons surrounding him—but not coming any closer—waiting as Bakura, barefoot, swept toward him. The grass was warm, and as Ryou picked himself up, he could feel dew seeping through his sweater. Somewhere above him, Keith barked the closing formalities, right eye twitching.

Bakura squatted so that red met green, leaning forward until their noses brushed. "Curious," the demon purred, almost sleepily, eyes drooping. His eyelashes were long and dark as soot, severed in two by the thin gold chain that draped elegantly down his pallid face and throat. "Mm. . .'like you."

_ Pretty._ Ryou blushed and was furious with himself.

The demon grinned, his blood-eyes snapping open. The long fingers that wrapped suddenly around Ryou's wrist tingled painfully. The boy gurgled, biting down hard on the inside of his mouth, waiting until the throbbing changed to numbness. Bakura's grin widened with his garnet eyes. His breath was hot and moist against Ryou's mouth. Their foreheads were touching, and Bakura's eyelashes brushed against the boy's skin as he blinked.

"Mm," he said again. His lips grazed Ryou's as he spoke. "Meow."

Ryou flushed to his ears.

Bakura chuckled and bounded to his feet, dragging Ryou up with him. "Let's go, slave," he said cheerfully, slinging Ryou effortlessly over one shoulder and grinning as the boy squeaked in fright. "My _Ankh_ is waiting."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Notes:

_ = _Does Ryou's cross have any significance to the story? I'm not sure yet. Don't ask me.

_ = _Castes. . .as in the castes from Hinduism. We aren't going to have demons or angels reciting Bhagavad Gita, but we do have high castes and untouchables in both zones.

_ = _We have lots of worlds. Demonic underworld, angelic upperworld, and then there's the magical sub-existence that coexists with the mundane. That includes the usual—knights, mages, fairies, mermaids, etc.

_ = _Is the demonic underworld sexist? Err. . .

_ = _Yes, Keith is a drunken bastard. I don't like him. But I don't hate him either. And I can see Keith x Mai happening, so there. =P What are his ties to Bakura? You'll find out in good time. . .

_ = _"Witchling" is a term I made up to describe people like Ryou. They've got a touch of magic in their blood and aren't clueless like normal humans about what's beyond the mundane.

_ = _I made Bakura out in this story to be absolutely random and eccentric, like Jack Sparrow. (Jack Sparrow is HOT.)

_ = _Demonic cursing is a bit different. I figured that since humans are always saying "Damn it," demons would have a similar system, but with different words. 'To damn' and 'to bless' are essentially opposites. So while humans and angels might curse with 'damn' and 'God,' demons use 'bless,' 'Shaitan,' etc. "Shaitan below!" is a common expression down there.

_ = _Severs are the demonic currency. They've got small change, but since it was an auction, small change isn't going to show up until later chapters. And those equivalents? I always pictured "Faustian" demons having a bartering system as well as one using money. . .so use your imagination.

_ = _Will I have as many notes in future chapters? Umm. . .

Next chapter:

Ryou is welcomed into the Bakura household and given a crash course in all things demonic. What, or who, is _Ankh_?

A/N: _[[wince]] _That was tough. But I got through it. Don't beg too hard for the next chapter. . .I have no idea when I'll have time to write it. Having to go back and manually space in my tabs was hard, too. I hope the tabs show up...if they don't, well, blehhh. New editing glitch, I guess. As always, review, and we'll love you. Happy (belated) birthday, Itooshi!

::ryuujitsu & co.::


	2. strawberries 'n' vodka

FAUST

yuugiou fanfiction

ryuujitsu & co.

chapter two: strawberries 'n' vodka

Disclaimer: Saying we own Yuugiou is like saying College Algebra is a kindness to humanity. College Algebra is not a kindness to humanity. It never was, never will be, and let's all take a moment to thank the gods for that, shall we?

_A/N: Wow. The response to chapter one was lovely. Those of you who reviewed, you have taken my ego to the moon. Is that a good thing? . . .would I know?_

_Yea, I got cold feet and updated a day early._

_A lot of you mentioned the chapter length. . .I honestly don't think it was that long of a chapter. Okay, so it's a pain to keep chapter lengths consistent if the page count is already that high, but I can tell you right now that the first chapter of Eden Rising was 28 pages as opposed to Faust's first 20 pages. Long chapters is sort of an HP thing, I think. I dunno. I happen to like it. (sweatdrop) I tried to make this one shorter, but I think it ended up longer. . ._

_Malik and Bakura were popular last chapter. . .but to be honest, Bakura's strange mannerisms of last chapter as well as a few of Malik's quotes were mostly stolen from Yukari. Itooshi knows what I speak of. I feel bad about taking credit for his quotes, though. If you've read through my bio (and if you have, you must have an abnormal amount of spare time), you'll notice that I think he says a lot of things to be quoted. _

_Then again, he's a bishie. As a bishie-junkie and practicing bishounen hunter, it's my duty to write down everything he says and does. Preferably without his knowledge._

_Once again, dedicated to Itooshi. I have decided to make up for my lack of presents for her birthday by giving her this ficcu. Yes, I am a stingy little bitch. Oh well. Lucky for all the rest of you, though. P_

ITFTC:

"freakin' hippie, rigging a bomb to a vase. what's next—an exploding tree?"

- Dee Laytner (-FAKE- Vol. 4)

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

"Where to, guv'nor?" said the demonic cab driver, dropping a lanky arm over the rolled-down windowsill of his taxi. He looked fairly young and would have appeared altogether unthreatening had it not been for the three red-scaled horns sprouting from his scalp. The taxi was slightly more impressive; made of riveted blue-black iron and shaped like a block of concrete, it more resembled an army tank than a means of civilian transportation. The driver seemed to take no notice of Ryou, as though souls being hefted around on demonic shoulders was a commonplace event.

_Then again_, thought Ryou, gaping as a hulking demon walked by all but draped with souls, _maybe it is_.

Bakura made a show of considering. "Dahlia's red light district," he said at length, with a mischievous gleam in his garnet eyes. As the driver blanched, Bakura tucked a pouch of grave dirt into the driver's open claw and smiled. "Drive fast!" he said cheerfully.

The other demon stared at the bag bulging in his hand, then back at Bakura. "Yore fun'ral," he grunted, and shrugged. "Get in, guv'nor."

The taxi-tank's door opened with a rasping creak. Bakura, unslinging Ryou from his shoulder, tossed the boy in carelessly and slid after him. Ryou landed with an undignified squawk and slowly picked himself up, glowering resentfully at the silver fiend's unwavering smirk. The tank's massive structure proved to be deceptive in design—the overheated interior was a rather cramped sardine tin with flaking leather seats. Ryou pushed himself up against the window; his knees were flush with the grill that separated driver from passengers, his left side squashed against Bakura's right. He wriggled his toes and squirmed for a better position.

"Soul-boy," murmured Bakura in his ear, and pulled him closer so that their legs overlapped, "you don't wanna be too close to the windows here."

The driver grinned knowingly in their direction. "We're havin' a good day, actually, guv'nor. There was one azor-truck that went off near th' bridge some time this morn, damaged a buncha cables but not much else. Traffic's been level twelve all day, though, 'cause of it."

"Hm." Bakura nodded absently and tugged the hood of his patched cloak further over his eyes.

Ryou shifted again, wincing as his sweaty back peeled away from the leather. His legs were bent at odd angles in front of him, right leg folded under left, with Bakura's knees draped unabashedly over his thighs. The demon, feigning sleep, was watching the driver from under thick silvery lashes.

_"You know, Keith, mornings are a great deal less painful when you're not hung over," shouted Bakura over Ryou's back. _

_Keith's replying yell was a deadened bellow; Ryou couldn't make out the words, but he assumed they were demonic expletives of some sort._

_"Wh-what—p-put me down!" stammered Ryou, watching the ground bounce up and down from his vantage point hanging across Bakura's shoulder. The demon's feet were bare and bleached, almost ghostly against the grass, rising and falling at an amazing pace. Ryou focused in on a single bluish vein meandering over the bridge of one pale foot, feeling vaguely motion-sick._

_Bakura laughed and patted Ryou's rear. "No can do. The signal is pretty weak here, but I'll switch us out long-distance soon. 'Can you see me now?' " He sniggered. "'Good.' "_

_"Where are we going?" Ryou managed, vision swimming. _So dizzy. . .

_". . .Dahlia," said Bakura faintly, slowing his gait. He had cocked his head to the right, listening for something. "Dahlia, of the Thousand Citadels. It's in the war zone, but you'll love it, soul-boy." And he laughed again, one short, derisive chuckle, stopping his saunter altogether. "Signal, signal, signal. . ."_

_"Meow, soul-boy," said Bakura, "ever switched long-distance before?"_

_"Anou. . .no?" said Ryou. _I've heard about this,_ he thought, mind racing. _They had local switching previously. . .and that's what most demons use to commute from place to place. . .but Dahlia is a port city, and we seem to be landlocked here. . .Kami-sama, he _isn't_ trying to switch to the sea, is he?!

_Bakura's hand was roaming across the small of Ryou's back, pushing the boy's sweater upward. "Pffft. The system's not the most glitch-free as of late. Hang on tight and try not to scream too much, then."_

_"Wha—_gaaah!_"_

_"Switching," and the ease it implied, was an extreme misnomer. Ryou lost feeling in his hands first, his limbs being thrashed by the violent fluctuations in Bakura's demonic aura. Then pressure exploded, forcing air into his lungs, shoving his body in on itself and crushing him against the silver fiend who carried him. Ryou coughed out a cry, only to have his breath sucked down his windpipe again. The buzzing in his ears and needles through his skin only intensified as seconds went on, and his tears were bulging against his eyes—_

_As soon as the torture began, it ended. Ryou was slumped across Bakura's shoulder, choking and gasping, staring mindlessly at a graying city sidewalk, inhaling stale city air._

_"Rough landing, sorry," said Bakura, without the slightest bit of chagrin. He pivoted toward the street, garnet eyes scanning the tar-paved roads and traffic signs. "Signal got us to McConnelly Street, that's not too bad. Hm, well, here we are, soul-boy. Dahlia, of the Thousand Citadels."_

_"Now—now what?" Ryou hiccupped tiredly, barely able to raise his head. All around them, dark silhouettes of hundreds of castles rose into the encroaching gloom. Somewhere in the distance, he heard blaring horns, sirens, getting closer. . .an ambulance, black and silver, roared by, pixilated, and vanished abruptly, apparently having 'switched' out._

_Bakura's hair swept across the bared skin of Ryou's stomach, indicating that he had turned his head again. "Merrrow. I'ono," the demon said confidently. "Get a cab, I suppose." He jerked his arm at the road. "TAK'SHI!"_

_Ryou felt his eyes drooping shut. _'Tak'shi. . .tak'shi. . .'

"Oops, roight turn 'ere," said the driver suddenly, interrupting Ryou from his reverie as he sent the taxi-tank flying around a corner, narrowly avoiding splattering a pedestrian over his windshield. He screeched to a halt centimeters from the car-tank in front of him and began cursing eloquently in demonic; traffic had come to a complete standstill.

"Nnn!" squalled Ryou in muffled alarm, tumbling to his left and smashing his face into Bakura's snowy mane. _Mmphff. Soft. . ._

Extricating himself was an impossibility, as they were now a mess of hopelessly tangled limbs. Bakura, blood red eyes half closed, tilted his head back and exhaled loudly. "It'll be another two hours, at this rate, before we're even past the bridge," he said, smiling lopsidedly. "Technology sucks, meow meow. Get comfy, soul-boy!"

Ryou sighed, buried his nose back in Bakura's hair, and tried to blot out the sound of honking car horns.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

"Dahlia." The Crown Prince gazed up at the immense castles—_the Thousand Citadels—_that constituted the skyline, the illuminated minarets cutting a jagged section from the darkness. Skylights roamed left, then right, gleaming red across the surface of obsidian buildings. He hadn't wanted to fly in specifically for this reason; at night, flying objects were _the_ thing all snipers shot at for lack of clearer targets. Risking getting caught by a skylight, much less an arrow through a wing, was the last thing he needed. The red lights did prove one thing, though—the switch charm had worked, and they were in the right location.

"Dahlia's Red Light district," said the Crown Prince somewhat smugly. "Chaerbi'us, we've arrived."

"Haven?" said the cherub-angel in strangled demonic, cocking its head to one side. The halo made a tinkling noise from where it had been spelled invisible; as if hearing, one red light circled towards them, and the Crown Prince pulled the cherub-angel back into the alley and secured the hood more firmly over his companion's countenance.

The Crown Prince thought of the explosions and gunfights of the past month and frowned in fond exasperation. He tugged his own cloak forward to hide his eyes, which reflected none of the red light, instead throwing their own bloody glow into the haze. "Silly. Of course not."

"Tiiire-ddd," said the cherub-angel slowly, cautiously pronouncing each syllable. It looked up at him with drooping eyes. "Shhallll sleeep soonn?"

The Crown Prince swallowed a yawn and surveyed the empty roads with a wary eye. Roughly every three minutes, a red beam four or five metres wide would slide across the area, making a quick sprint across the street and into the darkness beyond a risky run to make. "Eh. . .eventually."

_Timing, timing, timing._ He drummed his fingers.

"_Fei_," suggested the cherub-angel simply, peering over his shoulder. "Fly. One heartttbeattt, fourr winggbeatts. It shhhould be very easy. Fast. _H'n quai, h'n quai de._"

The Crown Prince glanced at the street again. It was a good two metres wider than the pulse-light, so an extremely well-timed hop, skip, and wing was plausible. But they were back to the timing. The beam swept the street at least twice in five minutes, with varying speeds. He looked down at the cherub-angel. _Maybe if I grabbed him first, then. . .rolled him? Shaitan below! _This_ part of the escape was not meant to be the part riddled with difficulties!_

"_Yuutsi_." It was the first time he'd said the cherub-angel's name all evening and the angelic term felt almost natural. Immediately the angel snapped to attention.

"_Sheh'me?_"

"Do you see that streetlight over there? The one that glows red?" He pointed. "Yes, that one. Not too far away, right? Good." The Crown Prince let his cloak slide to the ground and ignited it with a wave of his fingers; before the rich material could hit the ground, its ashes were fluttering away. He angled himself toward the light, steering the cherub-angel so that they faced the same direction. "Are you ready, little one?" he breathed, very aware of the sudden shiver he had caused.

"Y-yes," stammered the cherub-angel.

"Good." They were two paces into the street when the light pivoted toward them, its red glare flashing against the gold-violet-black of the Crown Prince's hair. "Then let's _go!_" The Crown Prince caught the angel up in his arms, his wings unfurling with a violent crack from just beneath his shoulder blades. They exploded forward—the light skimmed across the tip of one leathery wing—and found a faded mauve tuft of feathers instead of the customary hook-claw—the cherub-angel squeaked in fright—and then, they were across, lying in a crumpled heap under the streetlight, safe from the alarm bell that would have sounded.

"_Yuutsi_?" said the Crown Prince softly, long white fingers roaming across the invisible halo. "_Keii ma?_"

The cherub-angel nodded noiselessly, eyes fixed on the lavender-coloured feathers that flopped unexpectedly from the Crown Prince's sleek maroon wings. The Crown Prince felt his wings curling self-consciously to hide the clump; he reached back and, grimacing, manually retracted his wings, using his hands to tuck the gristly material into the gashes in his skin. He felt the torn outer membrane mending itself and was stunned to see that he hadn't drawn blood.

"Surpriseddd me," said the angel, and kissed the Crown Prince's hands. The gesture, though tender, held no underlying meaning; they both watched silently as the scratches across the demon prince's palms healed instantly.

The Crown Prince rose to his feet painfully, using the lamppost as support. "Something doesn't seem right," he said, staring around the red-punctured darkness, straining to hear the din that should, by all rights, have started already. "It's one a.m. on a Friday night. _ANKH_ should be around the area. . .but I can't hear anything at all. Where is it?" The thought that had been pressing at the back of his mind finally came forward. "Oh, Shaitan," he breathed in terror. "_ANKH_'s been bombed?"

_Then. . .then this escape. . .it was all in vain. . .all for nothing!_

It took a moment to compose himself, to get his thundering heart to stop its pounding, the dryness in his mouth to vanish—

_Silly_. He inhaled deeply. _Where are the ambulances? The smoke? The debris? Nothing's happened to _ANKH_. Bakura's probably just drunk off his ass again, stupid bastard._

That wasn't true, either. He knew that Bakura (despite the strawberry vodka stashes he held) would probably slash his own jugular before ever touching any sort of alcohol. _Foul stuff, he always said. So where is he? And where is _ANKH

"_Kan!_" said the cherub-angel, tugging at his bare arm.

The Crown Prince looked. And smiled. Just beyond the next corner, a red light had flickered to life.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

The interior of the castle was as forbiddingly gloomy as it had appeared outside, in the street. Burnished torches dripped pitch from where they hung, barely fuming, on the walls, providing lighting dim enough to illuminate potentially dangerous stairwells. Tapestries of differing sizes and hues lined the corridor, leading to a single distant staircase that only spiraled upwards. _Probably the minaret we saw earlier. No pulse-lights near it—that's good._ _We could probably get up there easily._

They phased in through a ground-level window. The Crown Prince landed on all fours like a cat; the cherub-angel, squeaking, tumbled into the drapes and lay in a bemused heap on the floor, blinking.

The Crown Prince smiled despite the situation, and remembered.

_He found the angel hiding behind the curtains, cowering just out of reach beyond the red velvet drapes, wings pressed against window, back pressed against wings. It looked like a cherub of sorts, with tufts of stubby, cream-colored feathers and wide violet eyes set in softly sculpted face. The halo dangled nearby from a trembling piece of gold-red-black hair, casting a weak, pulsing glow over their faces—one frightened, the other intrigued._

_"_Cher—Chaerbi'us?_" said the Crown Prince in alarm, the angelic tongue badly accented. "_Ni dsai seiri gansheh'me a!?_"_

_The cherub stared up at him with a blank resolution that was completely and utterly maddening._

_"Oi," said the Crown Prince, tugging the curtains further back, sighing as reddish moonlight flooded his chambers. This little episode was severely testing his ability to speak angelic. "_Ni dsai seiri gansheh'me a? Ni gaosh'u wo ba. Kwai de'irn chyang kae wo. Oi!_"_

"Frik!" The Crown Prince swore and, snatching up the cherub-angel in his arms, made a dive-roll past the first swinging hatchet, narrowly avoided the second, and came to a screeching halt just before the third took off the tip of his nose. He scooted back a few centimeters, gaping in disbelief as three crimson strands of hair floated gently to the floor, and then let loose.

"Lucifer anti-Christ! What the bloody haven is this idiot playing with? Fucking crazy—_guillotine_ in his Shaitan-blessed ceiling—_three fucking guillotines_—Shaitan-blessed-bastard! What the frik is he playing at!?"

"Eto. . .sound sensors?" whispered the cherub-angel, his warning a fraction of a second too late.

This time the Crown Prince threw the angel forward and exploded after him, wings out but kept tightly at his sides, the last blade cracking across hard leather and shearing off a few of the lavender feathers. He sat swearing for another half minute before throwing himself backward and getting the tip of his boot shorn away by a throwing star.

"Shaitan!" he hissed through his teeth, crawling forward with his stomach pressed against the cold stone floor.

The cherub-angel's scream saved him. "_Xiao shin!_"

"_Unholy mother of Shaitan!_ Eighth level's _Fire_!" the Crown Prince bellowed, throwing both open palms at the ceiling. The descending spears were incinerated, sharp metal tips curling into harmless spheres, dropping to the ground all about him.

And then he became aware of a distant, ominous rumbling. _The _frik_! What kind of circus _is_ this castle—_

"Yuugi!" he shouted the name in demonic, panic lacing his voice as he forced himself into a headlong sprint, spearheads scattered around him. His wings flapped behind him, useless because the corridor was so narrow. "Yuugi—run!"

The noise grew, this time accompanied by a visual. A granite boulder, pressure-forged and dwarf-discovered, most likely, was thundering towards them, increasing in speed and sound. Sobbing with desperation, the Crown Prince grabbed the cherub-angel's hand and they ran, side-by-side, pressed to the walls, red and white wings trailing after them, dragging at them, slowing them down.

"Yuugi!"

_"Hae!"_ shrieked the cherub-angel. Its tiny hand slipped from the Crown Prince's sweaty grasp and it fell to the floor. The boulder—like some horrific scene from a movie—was seconds from crushing the angel. It rocked closer—closer—_closer_—

_Yuugi._

"Fuck this!" The Crown Prince skidded to a halt, pivoted on his heels, and sent another blast of fire at the boulder, just singeing the edges of angel's stubby wings. The fire wasn't meant to destroy the boulder, but to create a firewall, to hold it off long enough for them to make it to the staircase. "Eleventh level's _Fire!_" He reeled backward, feeling the aftershocks of using old magic, the blisters on his lips from spell-casting, the burns on his hands.

_The grand finale. _He gritted his teeth and dug his heels more firmly into the ground, raising his hands again. "Eleventh level's _Fire!_"

_This had better hold, or we're dead—_

A strange angry hiss of—something—escaping into the air. _What?!_

The boulder exploded into shards of burnt plastic and slivers of smoking black rubber. Eyes tearing from the stench, the Crown Prince went forward to see if the angel was in any other way damaged.

Shaking hands out in case there were any more hostile traps awaiting, the Crown Prince wrapped one slick dark wing around Yuugi's shoulders and smiled down at the trembling angel reassuringly, taking a few breaths to calm himself, speaking in a soft but firm voice. The angel's eyes were round; it stared at the smoldering rubble with a silence that spoke quite adequately of its awe.

"Figures. It's not as though he could afford a real boulder during war-times anyway. C'mon, let's go. It's not much further, I promise."

"_N-n-ni de sh-sho ne?_" the cherub-angel inquired tremulously, taking one of his blistered palms in its own two childish hands, forcing the Crown Prince to slow his pace. "Magickkk is spent, let me fix. Healll quick, yes?"

"No."

The wide eyes were full of hurt. The cherub-angel dropped his hand and continued to walk alongside him, head bowed.

"Yuugi," said the demon. "I'm sorry. That's not what I meant. It's not wise to use your magic so freely. What happens when I'm more seriously wounded, and you have no magic left to heal me then? These are only burns, and they're _my_ magic at that, so they'll fade within the hour. Don't worry about me, okay? I'm going to get you home safely, and that's all that matters."

The angel's eyes said differently, and so the Crown Prince looked away. "I think those were the bulk of his traps on this level. We can probably reach the minaret in one piece."

The demon prince saw the girl first. She was sitting on the minaret's window-ledge, her hands absently toying with a spirit-dancer she'd probably summoned. Her head was tilted as though she'd been listening to it, and her eyes held the blank, unfocused look that most sorcerers got when they were performing spells. He stifled a curse and began edging back into the darkness of the stairwell, but the damage was done. The spirit-dancer vanished from her hands and she whirled, easing off the ledge. "Who's there?!"

She was pale and transparent-skinned, voluptuous and clad in a dreary white-gray robe, turned blue by the sky. She had the look of someone who'd been caught doing something terrible. "M-Master Bakura?"

The Crown Prince steeled his nerves. _It's only a girl, practicing dead-raising or not_. He stepped out of the shadows, and made a graceful leg. "Atemuyami, demonic Crown Prince of Hades, pleased to make your acquaintance, milady. I need to see your master, as soon as possible."

At the mention of his title, her eyes flashed, and then she saw Yuugi, and was screaming.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

"Beelzebub, Moloch, Beliaf, and Mammon! Shaitan-blessed traffic."

Bakura hooked a finger under Ryou's collar and began dragging him out of the cab. The driver was gone the moment they hit the sidewalk, screeching off with the open door still flapping on its hinges.

Bakura jerked to a halt; Ryou, stumbling to keep up, smashed into his back and got another mouthful of silver hair. "Shaitan below!" the demon snarled, eyeing (somewhat viciously) a massive sign that looked as though it should have probably been flashing in neon colors, but only had half an 'H' flickering weakly. "_Blessit!!_"

_Gaaah!_

Bakura, not bothering with unlocking the back door, had taken Ryou over his shoulder again and switched _through_ the stone wall of the castle. It was entirely unpleasant. The stones were at least a half meter thick and incredibly cold, and the phasing itself left an acridly metallic tang in Ryou's mouth not unlike blood. Coughing and spluttering indignantly, Ryou slid from the silver fiend's shoulder onto the tiled floor, and lay there propped up on his elbows, watching as Bakura's form pixilated and solidified.

Bakura glowered. "I threw the key out _ages _ago. It's to keep Medusa and Lucifer in and Anzu out. Blessed crazy landlady."

He exhaled and ran a hand through his hair, glancing at the ebony hourglass that was dangling from the wall. "Well, we're three hours late, but the crowds are still around here somewhere. . .eh. C'mon, soul-boy."

_I hope he doesn't toss me over his shoulder aga—meep. Never mind._

Ryou sighed noisily, and contented himself with watching the white-and-blue tiles shift about the floor, which abruptly switched to a winding staircase of roughly-hewn stone. Bakura's odd cloak billowed in and around his face, and, idly, Ryou fingered the silken patch sewn near the frayed hem, lifting his head every step to avoid breaking the bridge of his nose across the back of the silver fiend's legs.

Three minutes. Up-down up-down. Four. Five. Up-down. The stairs whirled blue-black and he felt blood churning in his temples.

"I think. . ." Ryou said faintly. "I think I'm going to be sick. . .!"

"No, you're not," said Bakura cheerfully. "Pffft. At least not on my cloak, you're not," he added thoughtfully, and slowed his pace a bit. Ryou gulped and concentrated on keeping whatever was left in his stomach—in his stomach.

"BISH'!" howled Bakura at the top of his lungs, kicking at a stone block with his bare foot. Not a light tap, either—a full-blown, kung-fu-worthy kick, toe-first—and it was the _wall_ that went 'crik.' "Oi, Bish'es!" Ryou, hanging upside-down, could only gape as the stone—apparently a hollow passage—slid open, and two exceedingly green eyes peered up at them.

Then the lithe body pulled itself out of the crevice—a black-and-orange cat of spectacular proportions, perhaps the size of a small mastiff, with eight peculiar tails that moved like the snakes on a mythological gorgon's head.

"Medusa," said Bakura with a fond grin, and stooped to tug at the creature's ears. Ryou cringed as the floor—and the beast—loomed up at him. "I know I'm late; you don't have to look at me like that, you silly gorgon," the fiend purred, patting the immense feline's head. Medusa narrowed—her?—eyes and gave a snarling sort of mew before retreating back into the crevice.

The last tail to disappear behind the stone very clearly hissed at them.

"If you stay clear of those tails you ought to be alright. Meddy's not so scary as she is incredibly violent," said Bakura, in a tone that indicated he was trying to be comforting.

Ryou snorted. _Lovely._

There was a scuffling noise from above, and Bakura pivoted enough to obscure Ryou's view. "Master Bakura!" Ryou could only see the bare, translucent pink feet and slender ankles that looked as though they would probably extend into similarly long legs, all twined with blood-red ribbons.

"Mana," said the silver fiend, removing his cloak and handing it to the soul. "I need you to take Ryou—" and here he finally set Ryou on the step in front of him "—and show him around. And get _Ankh_ going, the key's in one of those pockets.

"Hellish dreams, soul-boy," Bakura added. He leaned forward and kissed Ryou's nose. "Don't get into too much trouble."

Ryou blushed furiously and looked at his feet.

"Sir!" said the girl desperately, clutching the cloak to her as Bakura brushed past them. "I thought—" she faltered under Bakura's garnet eyes. "I thought you might want to know, sir. It's—there's a man here to see you in the minaret. . .he's saying all sorts of crazy things—that he's the Crown Prince—and that he needs to see you right away, and. . .and, sir, he has an angel with him—"

Bakura stared blankly at her for a moment, before his smile took on a crazed tilt. "The Shaitan-blessed fool!" He switched out immediately, with a colossal aura-flare that sent both Ryou and the girl stumbling backwards.

_Kami-sama—what the hell was that?!_

"E-excuse me," said the girl shakily from somewhere behind Ryou, "but you're, uh, sitting on my legs. . ."

Ryou flushed and leapt to his feet, using the wall as a support. "Sorry." He coughed awkwardly and turned away as she adjusted her shift, jerking it down well past her knees.

"I'm Mana," she said, shamefaced, when she'd regained her footing. "Master Bakura isn't always like this. . .it's just with the war and everything. . .it's like he's lost his mind, you know?" She laughed nervously, running a hand through her yellow hair. "He's a pretty eccentric demon."

_More like 'pretty' _and _'eccentric,'_ said some traitorous part of Ryou's mind snidely. Mentally, Ryou made a strangled noise and proceeded to throttle the speaker.

"What was your contract?" asked Ryou suddenly, while following her up the winding stairs. _She doesn't seem like the type to have a downfall like that. Was it money? Love?_

"Contract?" she glanced at him, surprised. "What are you talking about? I work for Master Bakura. No pay, more of an apprenticeship."

Ryou gaped. "You're a _demon_?"

"I know I don't look it," Mana said sullenly, glaring at her near-to-transparent hands. "But my mother and father were third highest caste. Maybe we have some 'other' blood in the family, but I'm as pure as any demon here! I was studying under Master Mahaado when the war began, and when he was killed, Master Bakura agreed to take me in for a monthly payment from my parents." Her blue eyes gleamed, and she rushed on with fervor. "I wouldn't have gone through with it—but Master Bakura has such an immense library, and _such_ a reputation—and I'm positive that under his training, _I'll be able to resurrect Master Mahaado!_"

"Necromancy—dead-raising—is a forbidden art," said Ryou mechanically. He could hear his mother's sing-song voice, the childish rhyme: _'Three forbidden, break heaven and _raise hades_, and thrice-dev'lish is. . .' _

Two spots of color had appeared in the girl's cheeks. "I know it is!" she snapped. "But I—I'd risk it—for Master Mahaado—"

Ryou was silent. _Necromancing is a dangerous art, to be sure. Slaying the undead is difficult, and _raising_ the dead even more so—it's impossible to know what horrors they've been through, how altered the dead will be once returned in tangible bodies. . .and the repercussions on the 'raiser' can be deadly. . .but for the love of her former master, she'd do anything to see him again. . ._

"I—I'm sorry," Mana apologized. She _did_ look a bit shaken, maybe from the mystery-visitor who had surprised her earlier. "It's been a difficult day. It's late, and I'm sure you're tired. I'll show you to your soul-room."

Ryou nodded, and thought of his mother.

_'Three forbidden, break heaven and raise hades, and thrice-dev'lish is. . .'_ He couldn't remember what came next.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

The room where he was to now live was small and cramped, with burgundy tapestries decorating cream-colored stone, one wall-length mirror and a small hallway that led, Ryou assumed, to a washroom of sorts. Lining the walls were military-styled bunks, looking out of place with their steely silver shine.

Mana left him with six other souls—two male, four female, all looking as thought they might break if touched. Three were dressed in gray woolen sweaters and black leggings, the others in startlingly white uniforms, with strange silver crosses at their throats and wrists. "These are the Bish'es," she said, unsmiling. "They'll be 'showing you the ropes' in the next few days. Goodnight, everyone." Draping Bakura's patched cloak on the bunk closest to the door, she nodded to them and exited. There was a clicking noise, like a key turning in a lock.

It was hard to remember that these six had sinned in some way to be in the room with him—they beamed at him like newborn angels. Five of them crowded around him almost immediately with curious smiles, while one, a girl with ice-white hair, remained where she was and watched him with open suspicion plastered across her delicate visage.

"His eyes look just like Medusa's, don't you think?"

"Goodness, no! He's nothing like Meddy."

"Green eyes are so rare, though. It's no wonder that Master Bakura would pick him."

"And the resemblance! It's amazing! They could be twins."

"Except for the eyes—"

"What's your name?" Abruptly, the chattering five fell silent and looked to the speaker—the girl who was still sitting in the far corner. She was incredibly small and fine-boned, with a high-pitched, childish voice. Her eyes were green on the verge of blue, but opaque like jasper. _A pixie, maybe?_

She raised an eyebrow at his stare and he looked down quickly, feeling his face heating. "Ryou," he said, and hesitated, remembering Malik's reaction to his last name. Thinking of Malik caused a pang, but he brushed it away. "Anou. . .Kobayashi Ryou. It's nice to meet you. . ." He paused, waiting for the girl to give her name. She continued to watch him wordlessly as he squirmed under her impassive gaze.

_'beast. . .of. . .blood!'_

_Music? _Ryou frowned and tried to hone in on the noise below.

"Amano desu," said one of the boys, grinning as he bowed. His eyes were golden, like amber, his hair black with reddish highlights. "Finally, another Japanese. I've been waiting for a bit."

"Kace," said the other boy, with an American's slur. "Nice to meet you too."

"I'm Jin-Ho," offered one of the girls. She nodded at the remaining souls. "That's Margot, and that's Dejaah." Jin-Ho elbowed the pixie-girl's side. "C'mon, don't be so shy."

"Master Bakura calls me Sara," said the pixie-girl at length. She folded her tiny hands in her lap and met his eyes soberly, weighing her words carefully before she spoke again. "I am a grave-faerie from Cairo's sub-existence. Where I am from, I am called Kisaraesh'efarim." Her mouth quirked as though she was trying to smile. "But I am Sara, for short."

"It's nice to meet you, Sara," said Ryou, and bowed low. "It's nice to meet all of you."

"There are more of us, actually," said Kace. "Eleven more, that's another roomful. But they're working Friday-shift right now, with Mana. You'll meet them tomorrow. Try to ignore the music," he added, as a throbbing drum-beat and golden harpsichord triads wafted up through the floor. "Mana's getting everything set up."

"She's kind of like our overseer," said the girl named Margot. "She can be kind of crazy sometimes too, but that's what you expect from demons. She's not bad at all."

"Shh!" Jin-Ho moved Bakura's cloak from the bunk and folded it neatly on the floor, smiling gently at him. She had dimples in both cheeks. "You can take this bunk. Get some sleep, Ryou. You're probably tired, right? We'll tell you more tomorrow, if you want."

"Un." Ryou nodded gratefully. He slipped under the thin sheet, feeling the harpsichord ringing in his ears, the cold metal bunk against his back. The heavy drumming resumed, and finally, he heard someone singing, a dead monotone. . .

Shadows moved above him. "He looks so much like Bakura. . .it's kinda unnerving, na?"

"Shh, let the kid sleep, Amano!"

A verse, a screaming guitar. _'place of silence, moving shadows—crimson eyes are strangely gleaming in the darkness. . .'_ Ryou closed his eyes and was immediately asleep, dreaming of Bakura's blood-red gaze.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

The minaret was three-fourths enclosed, with one large gap between the stones forming a makeshift window, where the entire skyline of Dahlia was showcased quite nicely. It was an eating place of sorts, with three rectangular tables arranged across the round area, and one half-full coffee pot sitting cold on a tabletop. The evening air entered the window in chilly, breathless puffs, bringing city exhaust and briny sea-salt swirling around the room. Dahlia was a half-year desert despite its location so close to the sea—dreadfully arid during the day, ice-cold at night; the other half of the year, it sheeted rain without end, and was consistently muggy.

The Crown Prince drummed his fingers lightly across the table where he sat. It was made of some dark, heavy wood, the grains plainly visible but smooth to the touch. He looked at the cherub-angel, asleep with its arms folded on the table, its head resting on its arms, and smiled. _Aww._

"You fool." The voice was an icy blade.

He glanced up into red eyes so shadowed with anger that they seemed violet, his smile melting away. "Bakura."

It was. In glittering iron-blue _shenti_ and dripping with various adornments from arms, ankles, and hair, the fiend was a severe silhouette framed by the multicolored tapestry he stood before, barely shivering in the night air, his kohl-smeared eyes glowing like a satanic inferno. Residues of old magic washed from him in waves, harsh and metallic and foreign; his clothes rustled with the damp enchantments of the ages. He did not move, but magic swirled through the bangles, and they jarred together like dissonant bells.

"I don't want the explanation, _m'lord_ Yami," said the silver fiend, with a harsh breath through his nostrils. His eyes blazed black fire, a stark contrast with his frosty tone. "I want you gone. Take that winged creature with you and leave."

"So you've heard," said the Crown Prince quietly.

"I have." Bakura faced him dead-on, leaning over the table, knuckles whitening against the mahogany tint. "I've heard a blessed lot, and I'm not liking a word of it, _my liege_. You ought to have realized that your appearance here, on this night of all nights _and_ toting that chaerbi'us along, only discredits you further."

Yami frowned. "I'm not denying it. I'm not denying any of it, whatever you've heard of me—of my father. But the Twelve—"

"You know exactly what I think of the Twelve."

"Hear me out, Bakura. My father may have had his faults, but he was worthy of Shaitan's throne—certainly more worthy than any of the Twelve. When he died, Hades fell into chaos. Factions have formed and anarchy reigns. Kairou, Vladmir, Uustar—the city-states are falling, one by one. Dahlia is evidence enough of that."

Bakura's pupils were two chips of onyx in a sea of red-black. "The foundations of this underworld began collapsing long before your father's death, when that _evidence_ was born."

Yami's aura flared; the silver fiend's choice of words had not been lost on him. "The circumstances of my birth are of no concern to you!"

"It concerns me when the cities of Hades are crumbling to dust and azor mines line the streets of Dahlia." Bakura spoke slowly, deliberately—sharply, his voice picking up in pitch and speed. He snatched a stray lavender feather from where it lay on the table, downy and useless in flight, brandishing it before the Crown Prince's astonished eyes. "It concerns me when we are walking down the same path we took eighty years ago—when son follows father and beds an angel!"

Yami tore the feather away and crushed it in his hands, blushing with—_shame? fury? embarrassment?_

A stumbling mutter. "I haven't. . .bedded. . ."

_Ah, embarrassment, then._

Bakura grinned and pulled at one of the stray spikes of gold that grew from the Crown Prince's scalp, eyes reverting to their former red, aura-blaze disappearing. "Of course you haven't. Maybe you're salvageable after all."

"Shaitan below!" snarled the Crown Prince, with growing frustration. "Don't ridicule me, Bakura; I haven't the patience tonight. We've been traveling seven days straight, ducking the various faction-assassins, not to mention I also had to put up with your blessed castle-traps tonight. I've come to ask a favor of you, and I do think I've more than earned it."

They both stiffened as an azor mine boomed somewhere in the distance, lighting the outside sky with a temporary blue flash, turning the red searchlights to deep, dusky purple. The music below the minaret faltered, but continued.

_'blue searchlights sweep the moon. . .'_

"No, you've come to dance in a cage and get drunk silly," said Bakura, his lips curling in an ironic smile. "I washed my hands of this power-struggle eighty years ago, Yami. I won't involve myself again. However," and here he paused a moment, surveying the slumbering angel, then tossing a calculating eye over the Crown Prince, "as you managed to survive the bulk of my castle-traps, I'll let you stay the night. I expect you and your little feather-ball to be gone when Mana opens shop tomorrow."

The silver fiend hoisted himself onto the nearby counter and dangled his bare white legs, smirking. The anklets jingled. "I owe your father a few things, certainly. Fallen or not, Dahlia's still a port city, you know—we get all types, merrrow." He winked obnoxiously.

"The earliest ferry—"

"To Arachne across the sea, just before sunrise." Bakura nodded sagely. "It's about a four-day journey. I hope you don't get seasick very easily, because you've just won yourself a pair of free tickets."

Yami began to speak, and stopped, and could only stare, his eyes wet.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

_'Three forbidden, break heaven and raise hades, and thrice-dev'lish is. . .'_

He was a child again, squirming in his chair, wondering when she would finish and let him go play. His mother was a beautiful woman, he thought—pretty as angels came, lavender-silver hair pulled back in a thick, glossy braid, more purple than white. Her eyes were large, a gentle brown with hints of deep violet. Right now, of course, she was looking at him rather crossly and with impatience, as most mothers tend to do when their children are inattentive.

"Pay attention to me, Ryou," she scolded, staring at him in exasperation. "This is very important."

He wriggled some more, whining. "'Kaa-chan. . .this is boring. . ."

She blew a few strands of hair out of her eyes and surveyed him, her hands on her hips. "Just a few more minutes, okay, sweetie? Then I'll let you go with Amane. Just sit still for another few minutes, for Mum." His mother had lived in Britain for most of her adult life, and had absorbed more than enough mannerisms to last her. The silver cross gleamed around her neck.

Ryou pouted. "But. . ."

"No buts," she said tiredly. There were circles under her eyes where there hadn't been before; outside, Amane, already thirteen and currently on the telephone, shrieked with laughter. "Do it for Mumsy, okay, darling?"

"O-kay," he said sadly. "I'll listen."

"I want you to have this ready for your father when he returns. We have to practice it! Thrice dev'lish is. . .?" she prompted. "You remember, don't you, Ryou?"

He stared at her. He was fifteen again, writhing uncomfortably on the hard stool. Amane wasn't thirteen. Amane wasn't on the telephone. Amane was dead. His mother wasn't teaching him spells. His mother was dead, too. "I don't remember. . .I can't. . .Mum! What—what are you—Amane—"

She was watching him quietly, her gaze fixed.

"Mum?" he said uncertainly.

Outside, Amane's thirteen-year-old laughter turned to thirteen-year-old screams. Ryou leapt to his feet. "Mum? Mum, what's going on!?"

There were tears in her angel's eyes. "Why did you do it, sweetie?"

Amane's screaming halted. Amane was too silent. The sunlight was fading away. The room was fading away. His mother was fading away! Ryou grabbed at her arms desperately, shouting at her, wailing, "Do. . .do what, Mum? What did I do! Tell me! Mum! I'm sorry, I'm sorry! What did I do!" She was gone; he was snatching at empty air. "Mum! _Mum!_"

Blackness, and then her voice. _'Three forbidden, break heaven and raise hades, and thrice-dev'lish is. . .'_

Ryou stretched his shaking fingers toward the emptiness, seeing Bakura's garnet eyes glaring there like fiery coals. "Thrice dev'lish. . .thrice dev'lish. . .Why. . .why can't I remember?"

He woke gasping. It was not Bakura but Medusa who was watching him, her great green eyes fixed on his sweating face, her eight tails hanging limp, as though they were asleep. She eyed him for another moment, then padded to Sara's bunk curled up by the grave-faerie's side.

Ryou turned on his side and closed his eyes again, hearing one of the cat's tails give a sleepy hiss. _My new life_, he thought. Hot tears burned down his skin.

_Mum. I don't know why I did it either, Mum._

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

A/N: _I apologize for the time it's taken for me to write chapter two. School and other distractions have gotten in the way, and, unlike ER, I don't have several Faustian chapters written beforehand, so the pause between chapter-posts will obviously be much longer. I'm sorry, but that's how I work. I will try to post new chapters on Fridays or Saturdays once they are done, so check back every once in a while._

_Notes:_

_Meh. I don't feel like formatting right now, so if you're really curious, you're going to have to sift through this paragraph. Sorry. As in Dante's Inferno and other books/plays, hell is portrayed as having many levels. So, with both Yami's offensive spells (Ninth level's _fire!_) and the driver's description of traffic being such-and-such level all day, the higher the number of the level, the more powerful or serious the spell/expletive. Moloch, Beliaf, etc., are some fallen angels, as is Lucifer. Lucifer-anti-Christ is like going: Jesus Christ! . . .but demonic-style. _

_Yuugi is a cherub-angel, meaning he is cherubic in appearance, but doesn't play the usual cherub role. In that he is not a naked, smiling baby with wings. (sweatdrop) The language that he speaks is a take off of Chinese. Here're the translations:_

_Yuutsi Yuugi. Yami is saying "What are you doing here! Oi, tell me!" when he first sees Yuugi, and when Yuugi screams "Hae!", that's like the Chinese word for Dark, or Yami. "Sho" is hands, etc. It's really not meant to be understood, this angelic dialect. Sound it out. Sometimes it sounds like Japanese a bit, too, particularly since the accents aren't included. Oh yea, you remember that boulder scene from Duelist Kingdom, don't you? C'mon! Honda punched that balloon good. . .XD_

_Mana is Dark Magician Girl, if you haven't figured it out already. She's trying to resurrect DM._

_Most of you should remember Medusa. She's that awesome hott chick that Poseidon fell in love with, who got cursed by either Atlanta or Hera, because she and Poseidon got fluffy inside one of those goddess's temples. She's now unbearably ugly, so ugly that one turns to stone when one sees her. Her hair has pretty much become a living nest of snakes, hence Medusa the gorgon-cat's name. Medusa the gorgon-woman was later killed by Perseus, who reflected her own ugly image at her and then cut her head off._

_The music used was first from Malice Mizer's "Beast of Blood," and then Hiroki Wada's "Mystic Eyes."_

_The bishies may seem all sweet and innocent now, but you have to remember that they're not like Ryou, and that they had their own sick, twisted contracts that got them sent to the underworld in the first place. In other words, major mental issues in the next few chapters._

To all Reviewers: Twenty-four reviews! (group-glomp) Thank you!

TRT-sama: -U I hope you like your b-day prezzie, Itooshi-chan. Does the meow still annoy you? _Darlin', je vous aime beaucoup. . ._

Hieirulesall: Hiei does, doesn't he? I just think he's a bit short. . .

Kyoko-san: Hm, I didn't really get to the crash course yet. I meant to, but I forgot. . .(falls over) I'ono. I'll do it next chapter.

Maruken: Marikku and Malik will be back soon, I promise! And back together, perhaps. . I might just lend him to Pegsy-chan indefinitely. . .if I'm so inclined. . .

Meloncrisp: There, I updated! You happy? P I hope you liked this one. Ra knows I made you wait for it.

Person6: Eh, not too much fun away. India was freakish. Particularly since my wardrobe consisted of. . .black. And more black. I was melting like the Wicked Witch of the West. Yup, like I said, M&M will be back together. . .hey, M&M. . .(sweatdrop)

Hyacinthus: Aww, I'm flattered.

Pork Steak the Grande: Magnesium foil made my bishie-brother burn himself. . .Coca-Cola is awesome stuff! And editing my bio to keep it from clumping up was hell today, hopefully that change shows up soon! The big chunk of bio hurts my eyessss. . .

Misori Chan: Yay! Yes, M&M will be back together eventually. After I've developed a suitable plot.

The Inspector: I do so love Jack Sparrow. Savvy?

Hotoke-sama: Oo;; Bless it, indeed! Hooray.

MillenniumDreamer: Another slow update, I'm afraid. I'm writing as little as possible back to all of you so I can update faster. . .you don't mind, do you?

January Marlinquin: Yami and Yuugi! Was it okay? Ooh, I do like that pretty-please of yours. I think I might update just a tad faster. . .maybe. I have some papers due soon. Xx

DreamingChild: Hope you liked!

Yokuryu-sama: Strange shtuff rocks my socks! I enjoyed your fic greatly, by the way. . I do believe it's the first signed review I've given in a year. . .or something. (anime fall)

Kyrian: Eh heh. . .I don't know about the chapter length, it kinda just happens. . .

Evil Chibi Malik: Imoto-chan who draws so very well! My trip was nasty-nasty-nasty, I'm so glad to be back, even if it's blessed cold over here. Cookies, yay! (chomps on cookie)

Yami hitokiri: Shaitan below was kind of like "God in Heaven!" or "Lord above!" Or at least I meant it to be. Well, it's meant to be bad, so either way works, ne?

Chelley Angel: Cool!

Dilly's Best Slayer: Oo My goodness, really? I'll have to change that as soon as possible! I kind of figured Yumeiishipping was a generalization of the three Yamixhikari pairings. . .I guess not. (sweatdrop)

Hales731: I looked back on that transition, and you're quite right. (cough) So I tried to make the second flashback a bit more connected this time; I'm sorry about the dream sequence, I realize it's kind of out of place, but it's meant to be choppy like that. . .

Inu-Ice-Dragon: Hehe, I try. . .

Elle-Fate2x1-2: Yea, Ryou was silly. He's regretting it now, too. Oh well, Bakura will make him feel better, won't you, Bakura? (nudges Bakura) (Bakura runs and locks himself in a closet)

Fowlet.Press: Hell yes, Bakura is sexy! I'm setting up the plot twist right now. . .I have not a clue how this is going to go yet. . .consider this a filler chapter, even! It's just setting up the pieces. . .

_Next chapter:_

_Since I forgot the crash course this chapter, we'll just smush it in with the next one. Coffeeshops and nightclubs and dev'lish bishies! And what of Malik?_

_Thank you ever so much, everyone who read and reviewed! And also those who just read! I'm glad you are. Feedback is always appreciated, good and bad, and I would love some constructive criticism. But please don't tell me _this_ chapter is long; I'm well aware that it is. (sweatdrop) See you next time!_

_ryuujitsu & co._

_PS: Next time is probably going to be mid-december._


	3. sixsixsix and other numbers

FAUST

yuugiou fanfiction

ryuujitsu & co.

chapter three: six-six-six and other numbers

Disclaimer: Saying Yuugiou belongs to us is like saying Pikachu is green. Well, ours is, but that's beside the point. . .

A/N: _Aiya! I love you guys. (glomp) --;; I guess it is true; the reviews _did_ motivate me to start writing this chapter a bit sooner than I would have under normal circumstances. That, and I've read three Anne Rice novels in the past two days. . .and I am bursting with creative energies! Or at least, I feel like writing, more than I usually do. Blame school! Blame bishies! Aie, I'ono. Problem? I wanted to see Lestat and Louis rolling around in the grass! But noooo. So now I have to write some sort of steamy scene in this chapter. . .and now that I've mentioned it, you're probably going to lynch me if I don't. Ack._

_Certainly, I'd like to. But it's too soon in this chapter. Sorry._

_Eep! Lots of you mentioned the confusion of last chapter. I'm sorry. I didn't mean for it to be so foggy. . .I have the whole plot in my head, you know, so it's like I can see the whole thing, and I'm forgetting to show you too. (sweatdrop) There are a lot of new concepts to introduce, I suppose, so hang in there, because there are a great many more to explain in the coming chapters. Also, I'd like some suggestions of the various complexes the bish'es could have. . ._

_Eh, just to let you know. I might be changing the JouKai pairing. I had it set in initially, and I guess a lot of you are drooling for that pairing, but I can't fathom the JouKai thing as ever being a plausible concept. Yes, yes, I know, I wrote one before, but that was a hetero-shot and a very long time ago, to boot. So Jou and Kaiba might be paired with different people now, obviously I'm not telling about those. . .(mischievous grin) _

_Things to be explained soon or later: The cities, the entire war, Yuugi's origins, Ryou's family, and others. Just a quick note before this chapter begins—time works differently between the worlds._

ITFTC:

"death by yarn!"

- Melon

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

His alarm clock read two forty-three a.m. in blinking red numbers. Jou groaned and swatted at it, rolling onto his stomach to stare at the hole in his wall blankly. It had been two weeks after Ryou's apparent "suicide," and he hadn't slept properly since. The clock cast a digital glare on the newspaper shreds strewn across his futon—_Boy Found Dead in Apartment_, the first, then a series of "protecting-your-children-from-unnecessary-angst" that followed, spawned by the incident—a clipping or two from a shady magazine. Yep, one of _those_ magazines. Shizuka was sleeping in the next room. Shizuka, with a bandage over her healing eyes. Shizuka.

"Oh, God," he croaked, one hand flopping limply across his forehead like a dying fish. He thought of the white-haired boy, probably being held somewhere in Hades, for the demons to use for some dastardly thing or another. _Ryou, you bastard. Why'd you do it? Ryou, you goddamn idiot!_

It came to him then, in an absurd moment of lucidity, that he was going to have to do something to save Ryou.

"Does it always take you this long to come to such simple conclusions?" said the pin-up girl in the poster nearest his mat, her voice deep and dry and incredibly, _incredibly_ masculine. Jou blinked twice and stared at the poster. The girl was the classic buxom, barely-clad blonde of the magazines, but, wait a second—his pin-up girl poster was talking to him? And with a _man's_ voice?

"Lucifer anti-Christ," she continued, in the same cold tone. Her brown eyes had gone blue suddenly, Jou noted. And the hair was shortening, darkening. The breasts that had been threatening to spill out from her low-cut shirt vanished away, hidden suddenly by an impeccably white overcoat, her bare legs disappearing into stiff black slacks. A very familiar face—angularly chiseled, closed and frigid—followed by the body, stepped from the poster and into his bedroom, solid as the hard floor Jou was lying on.

The drowsiness vanished from Jou's blood immediately. He felt like ice. "It's you!" he said, suddenly alert, adrenaline pumping.

_It's him. It's him. The one who signed my contract!_

"Yes, it's me," said the demon venomously, jerking his briefcase out of the wall with a single, wrathful tug. His glare was poison. "I had been planning to follow you into the soul market, but of course you had to go and foil that plan too." The acid in his eyes rose. "And how did you foil my plan? _Sheer, dumb luck_."

Jou gaped. "How did you get in!" _What the hell am I doing, asking him that. It's not like it matters. He's in, and he's come to get me again. Goddamn grim-reaper complex._

The demon sat down on the windowsill, legs crossed, muttering to himself. "You've escaped once though, and that intrigues me. You weren't to know that your classmate was a witchling, and yet you chose him to tell the secret to anyway. You're smart for an animal, I'll grant you that. Instincts, I suppose. Survival of the fittest, or something to that effect."

_Uh. . ._

"What's your name again?" Jou asked, dazed now.

"Just call me Kaiba, it might be easier for you." The demon snorted. "Honestly. Stupid creatures, humans. Like—what do you call them here? dogs?—just like inbred dogs. Mutts," 'Kaiba' spat. "Can't remember a blessed thing."

_Hey!_

"Well," said the demon, shrugging. He dusted his near-to-sparkling coat off, fixing Jou with a glacial blue stare. "At any rate, you're coming with me. I haven't got all night."

"Coming with you? To do what!?" Jou snapped, fear sharpening his voice. "You can't do that! It's against the soul market rules, especially now that I've been released from a contract! They can really hurt me now, you know, if I go back on what I signed! That's fucking illegal—and in _your_ world, too! You could get us—you could get us—errr. . .crucified or something!"

He was on his feet now, panting, hands balled into fists, mouth set in the fiercest grimace he could make.

"Oh, so he barks," remarked 'Kaiba' caustically. "I was never one for rules," he added, standing. "We're going to do exactly what you just decided, human. We're going to rescue Ryou. Or at least use him to my advantage. I prefer the latter, of course."

_N-n-nani!?_

And before Jou could splutter another word, the blue-eyed demon had him firmly by the collar of his pajamas and was dragging him _through_ the blonde-girl-poster. Jou went right through her throat—it felt like wood and paper and concrete, of course—but he couldn't help wishing the demon had aimed a bit lower. . . .

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Ryou woke slowly, feeling as though he hadn't slept at all. He noticed immediately that the other bunks were empty; someone had written him a note and taped it to his chest. Brilliant sunlight filtered through the narrow, cross-like slits in the stone walls, bringing with it the first cold breath of morning in Dahlia—gasoline and coffee mingled together. The pounding music of the night before was gone, replaced with the melodious tinkle of glasses and laughter.

Medusa was gone, probably prowling about some part of the castle. Dimly, Ryou recalled a forked tongue slithering across his cheek, the end of all dreams.

Hadn't Bakura mentioned another pet? Lucifer? Ryou wondered what kind of animal _that_ would be. He was vaguely troubled, and imagined a scene where he would be caught in some giant creature's mouth, with Bakura standing over him, explaining, 'Lucifer's not so much dangerous as he is venom-fanged and vicious. . .'

He peeled the note away from his body gingerly and brought it up to his nose. It was a rough scrawl across a delicate cream-colored piece of crepe, nearly transparent in the light: _Get dressed and head downstairs, sleepyhead. Your clothes are on the dresser, by the mirror. _A signature in messy Korean characters. _Jin-Ho?_ The letters were fading quickly.

Ryou had no sooner finished reading than the writing vanished, the crepe flared and curled away—ash. He sighed. _I could do with a latté_.

He found his clothes wrapped in a brown paper package, tied twice 'round with a blue string. Ryou pulled the sweater up to his body, shaking out the folds. It was a mottled gray and incredibly thick, and one size too large. Next came the leggings, black with an odd shine to them—second-skin, perfect fit. The sweater was abrasive against the burns on his skin, painfully so. He spun once in the mirror and looked himself over. The leggings weren't tight _uncomfortably_, but they did look. . .very tight. The overlarge sweater was an advantage, as it ran almost mid-thigh. Ryou turned to go.

Clink.

_Eh?_ He glanced at the remains of the package. Something silver caught his eye. _Mum's cross? It can't be. I lost that at the marketplace. . ._

It wasn't. Dangling from a silken black cord was the strange cross he had seen adorning the throats and wrists of his roommates—its base curved outwards, as did the two horizontal bars, but the top, where a similar rod should have been was a narrow, elliptical curve. _We read about these in history, didn't we? Symbols of eternal life, something like that._

Another note. Short, to the point, and much neater than Jin-Ho's writing. He could feel nothing but Bakura radiating from it. _'Soul-boy: Consider it a gift. And don't let the others near it.'_

He slipped the 'cross' over his head and felt a throb of power—not demonic or angelic, but foreign, alien. Ancient. It radiated outwards in a brief but violent shockwave; dust fell from the ceiling. Ryou surveyed the 'cross' in the mirror. Malleable metal; he wasn't sure what. And it wasn't the material that was pulsating, rather, Ryou was certain it was the actual symbol that was creating the rhythmical beat—there was something very, very wrong with it. . .

_Strange. . .it has no aura. . .it just feels. . ._old.

The reverberations died down within seconds, leaving a fleeting pang of _something_, just as 'old' as the initial swell. Ryou gave the pendant another tug, curious, but nothing more happened.

He was four paces into the outer corridor before he realized he could no longer feel the burn beneath his collarbone. Ryou yanked the sweater up, the pendant jangling, to gape in astonishment at the pearly scars that crisscrossed once over his skin.

_Healed. . ._

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

They were whispering about him in the kitchen. Jin-Ho stood by the door, her back to him, a large pot of coffee clasped with both hands. Amano and Kace lazed by the other end, their eyes fixed on Jin-Ho. The other 'Bish'es were nowhere to be seen.

"—favoritism," Jin-Ho was saying.

"Sending him gifts already—went to fetch him in person," chimed Kace, frowning. "New clothes immediately, let him sleep in. . ."

"What does he have that we don't?"

"I think it's the resemblance. . ."

"What does it have to do with anything? Master Bakura doesn't even want this one working the club, like we have to. In fact, I overheard him talking to Mana. . .the kid takes morning shifts only, cleans the upstairs in the afternoon—entirely isolated from all the people who visit, safe from the azor-mines. . ."

Amano saw him first. The other boy's golden eyes widened and then narrowed, and he coughed slightly. "Ryou-kun," he said, nodding at his companions to hush them. Jin-Ho's words died on her tongue, and she pivoted on her heel to face Ryou, reddening. Kace paled. Amano coughed into his fist again. "Ohayo."

"Ohayo," said Ryou cheerfully in reply, though somewhat suspiciously. The pendant was heavy and exceedingly _obvious_ around his neck. _'Consider it a gift.'_

"I. . .uh. . .I have to go. . .serve this. . .customers and their coffee, you know," said Kace nervously. He edged away from Amano, snatched the coffee pot from Jin-Ho's hands, and vanished out the opposite door, having avoided sloshing the liquid all over his sweater by the tiniest of margins. Jin-Ho didn't blink, instead turning her gaze—her eyes were decidedly cooler now—on Ryou.

Ryou swallowed. "Good morning," he said awkwardly, tugging at the collar of his sweater.

"'Morning," said Jin-Ho, noncommittal and icy all at once. "Mana asked me to show you around. 'Show you the ropes,' as she puts it." She was watching the light glimmering off his 'cross' with a hard-to-place gleam in her eyes. "This is _Ankh_. We open just before dawn, noon on solstice and equinoxes, Monday to Thursday and Saturday. All the artsy types meet up around here, early in the morning. Your job, for now, is to pretty much keep the coffee flowing."

Dejaah blew by. "Absolute no-smoking policy, remember that!"

"Stay away from the windows come noon," said Amano. "Traffic goes right by the street entrance, the azor trucks too. They take out entire blocks when they go off, usually."

"We've never had an explosion, though," called brown-haired Margot, as she dashed by with two steaming mugs of hot chocolate on a tray. The flow of white-noise from the 'artsy' patrons never ceased. "They always miss the café somehow."

"_Ee, hontou no,_" agreed Amano thoughtfully, pressing a dainty hand to his mouth. "It's true, we've had explosions just outside, but these buildings are never damaged—at least not beyond a quick repair. Maybe we lose a couple of stone blocks, a couple of demons die off—not much of a loss, if you ask me—but Margot-chan is right, we've never been put fully out of commission before by any sort of azor-mine."

He laughed. "I remember when one big guy pretty much blew apart—do you remember that, Jin-Ho-chan? We were scrubbing bits of him off the windows for ages."

At Ryou's shocked expression, Jin-Ho said callously, "We're in the middle of a war, kid. People blow themselves up left and right, trying to take the others out with them for whatever the hell they believe in. Martyrs, my ass. Life goes on as usual, but one day this thing's gonna escalate, and we can just cross our fingers right now and hope they end up killing each other off for us."

Ryou said nothing, taking in her glossy dark hair, the iron-blue lacquer on her fingernails.

"Demons," said Sara quietly, materializing on top of the counter. Her childlike legs dangled over the edge, bare toes spread, an empty coffeepot in her lap. Her white hair had been combed into liquid silk, and it fell in ringlets, tied in bunches with frozen-blue cords. She wore a blue child's frock and classic Mary-Janes, black with silver buckles shaped exactly like Ryou's pendant. "Demons, they are not all bad as you think, Jin-Ho."

Jin-Ho's eyes flashed, but she said nothing more on the subject. Instead: "Ryou, how about you grab a couple of muffins and make a circulation?" with saccharine sweetness.

"_Un._ Sure." Ryou's eyes fell on the basket near the girl's right arm. It was laden with assorted pastries, predominantly blueberry muffins, all of which were threatening to spill out onto the floor. He lifted it, blinking as his translucent fingertips began sliding _through_ the basket and the breads, to halt, firmly clenched, somewhere within the weave of the basket. _This is going to take some getting used to. I wonder why I'm not sinking into the castle? Maybe I can walk through walls, like a ghost!_

He remembered the wall-switching incident. _Eh. Maybe that's not the best idea, anyway. Oof, this is heavy._

"Careful," said Sara blandly, kicking her stocking-ed feet, the sugary lace of her Victorian dress rustling. Ryou knew immediately who had dressed her. He could see it in his mind—Bakura, combing the faerie's hair, brushing it back from her forehead with amazing care, like he would a porcelain doll's.

_She _is_ like a doll, in all respects. No emotion. She's a toy._

Ryou frowned, a bit disturbed by the thought. "_Domo_, Sara-chan." Balancing the basket on his hip, he departed from the kitchen.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

The types that frequented Bakura's _Ankh_ café were, in the beginning, soft-spoken and mildly polite. Their chatting created a constant stream of demonic; it swirled about the café like the nonexistent cigar smoke. Every now and then, a rougher-looking demon would stop in for breakfast and leave, but for the most part, those who had come in early would continue to drink endless coffee and talk amongst themselves. The few that raised their voices had a fanatical gleam in their eyes, but they all talked art, not politics. _Ah,_ thought Ryou, gazing around the room at the slender figures, the bohemian clothes. _The starving artists._

He circled around the café slowly, stopping at every table. Most artists ignored him and took what they wanted, dropping the necessary coins into his hand, but some paused in their conversations to examine him, exclaim over the uncanny resemblance, his eyes—something to that effect.

"I've never seen you before," said a particularly dreamy-eyed fellow. He was balancing a black beret precariously between the two uneven ram's horns on his head. "You must be new."

"Yes," said Ryou, feeling his mouth curving up at the corners. "It's my first day," he added. His nervousness had worn off after twenty minutes of observing the pair—the emaciated demon in the beret and his companion, a similarly gaunt demon with murky gray-blue eyes. The two both had untouched coffee mugs on the table, and had earlier been utterly engrossed in a deep discussion about the quality of paints made from mermaid scales.

"Oh," said the blue-eyed demon vaguely. "That's nice. You look a great deal like Mister Bakura, have you noticed?"

"Yes, except for the eyes. You have such nice eyes. I should like to paint them sometime. What do you think, Wyvern? Powdered green scales, with a bit of linseed oil and some bluish highlights. . ."

"Zira, Zira, Zira. I keep telling you you're getting ripped off by those blessed paint merchants. . ."

They turned back to each other and blocked Ryou out entirely. Grinning to himself, Ryou set two muffins down on their table and started his circulation again. The basket never fully emptied; muffins continuously reappeared as more went into the stomachs of the café patrons.

He learned from Margot that Bakura absolutely despised cigarette smoke and held early-bird specials—'endless' coffee for five dezsras, two muffins for three dezsras, et cetera—and that, as Jin-Ho had said previously, Bakura held the morning café first for the artists, then for those who came in hung over from going clubbing.

_Clubbing? I thought Dahlia was a war zone. . ._

_'Life goes on as usual.'_

What Margot had said was true; by eleven a.m. most of the "starving artists" had begun to filter out; by one p.m. the café had switched from caramel coffee and croissants to strong black coffee and sub sandwiches, and the "hung-over clubbers" were filtering in.

Mana found him at two o'clock, backed into a corner by, as she put it, 'some dreadful ruffian or another,' railing at him over the quality of last night's drinks. Ryou was doing his best effort to brandish the heavy basket of muffins-turned-bread, but he sagged in relief when the demon apprentice came to his rescue. She argued with the demon a bit, before tossing him neatly into a seat with frightening ease and spiriting Ryou away into the nearby corridor immediately.

"Ryou! What do you think you're doing? Your shift ended _two hours_ ago, didn't anyone tell you? I've been looking for you _everywhere_!" She tried to emphasize this with a hard jab to his chest, but she caught sight of the pendant, and, startled, dropped her hands to her sides. Her mouth opened and closed soundlessly for a moment, before she forced out, "Wh-where did you g-get that?"

"It came with my uniform," said Ryou honestly.

Mana frowned thoughtfully. "It's unusual for Master Bakura to go handing out little trinkets along with the uniforms, but very well. He did it for a reason, I'm sure. Could I—you know—" She reached out with trembling fingers.

"No!" Ryou leapt back. He flushed. "I mean. . .he wrote a note. . .said not to let anyone else near it. . ."

"Oh," she said, looking rather put out. "Alright, then."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

"This is his private study," Mana whispered to Ryou. They had climbed endless flights of winding staircases, finally reaching a single tower room. The door was simple and wooden, bolted shut by several iron rivets. Mana raised a pale hand and knocked twice, one sharp tap, one muted tap.

The voice that answered was muffled. "Come in."

The rivets turned one by one, and the door opened, blasting them instantly with four spears of aura-flares. Ryou got the distinct feeling that Bakura had only flicked his fingers at the door to unlock it, and, sure enough, as the door slid open, he saw the silver fiend poring over a thick tome, left hand pointing at the door. Medusa lazed on the floor beside him, her mouth opened in a yawn. The eight tails curved and hissed in their direction, forked tongues flickering.

"Mana," said Bakura, without looking up, "the lunatic that was here last night with the angel, has he gone?"

"Yes, Master Bakura, sir," said Mana promptly, with a quick nod. "He left for the docks before the sun rose, and he took the angel with him. He left you a bag of featherdust, to demonstrate his gratitude. It's lavender dust, sir." She dug in a previously unnoticeable pocket of her shift, and dropped the leather pouch into the air, where it remained, rotating around like a showcase diamond.

"Oh,how _lovely_!" cooed Bakura, in a such a way that Ryou could tell his garnet eyes had lit up. He made a motion with his hand, and the leather pouch drifted across the room and to his desk, alighting there with a gentle thud.

"I've brought Ryou like you asked, sir."

Bakura waved his free hand around. "Thank you, Mana. It's Saturday; we'll be closing up soon. And I expect you to be more punctual in the future when I ask things of you."

"Yes, sir. It won't happen again." Mana bowed and exited.

Bakura waited until the door had clicked shut behind her before turning to face Ryou. His silvery hair had been pulled out of his eyes with the red bandana and round-lensed spectacles were balanced across the bridge of his nose. He was wearing several shirts of various colors, over which an exceptionally loose robe was draped. The V-shaped opening went to his waist, cut abruptly by a cherry-hued tartar sash. Over the back of his chair lay the patched cloak.

"You're two hours late, soul-boy," said the fiend softly, setting the book down. He removed his glasses and tossed them haphazardly on top of the closed volume; they missed it by centimeters and landed somewhere on the floor beyond the desk.

"It's not Mana's fault. . .I got carried away—lost track of time. . ." Ryou trailed off as Bakura stepped towards him.

The fiend nodded at the pendant. "Do you like it?"

Ryou swallowed and toyed with the 'cross' nervously. "Eto. . .anou. . .it's really not something I'd wear normally. . .it's quite pretty, of course. . ." _Pretty like you, _said the voice in his mind snidely. The traitorous portion of his thinking had apparently returned as a super-concentrated ghost. Ryou heaved a mental sigh and did his best to maintain eye contact without blushing, and then sighed aloud when he realized his ears were red already.

Bakura laughed, whispering silkily in his ear, "You're cute."

Ryou thought it would be wise to stay silent. He wasn't quite sure what would come out of his mouth anyway, after that comment. _I'm cute? You're pretty cute too. Wait a damned minute. . .! _He clamped his mouth shut and stared straight ahead.

"Meddy," said Bakura, flopping onto the floor and holding out his hands. The giant cat rolled onto her stomach and rose to her paws, padding over to her master with a baleful glare at Ryou. One of the tails coiled as if to strike, but Bakura batted it away with another laugh. "None of that, you big silly kitty. Merrrrow, you scary cat, c'mere. You too, soul-boy, let's _snuggle_."

"Eto. . ."

The demon grinned up at him. "I may have fangs, but I promise I don't bite, unlike Meddy-chan. She just promises and bites anyway, isn't that right, love?" He kissed the snake-tail closest to him and patted the ground. "Sit down, soul-boy, let's have a talk."

Ryou hesitated, then dropped to the ground, crossing his legs in front of him. Bakura dragged himself forward on his forearms and lay sprawled out on his stomach, watching Ryou with his chin resting on the back of his right hand, his left hand stroking Medusa's back. "So, soul-boy. I've been looking at your contract, and while Mai does a good job with details most of the time, she's decided to omit almost everything about you. And I'm curious about those details. We'll go over your contract together after this, but I want to know a few things first.

"Your name is Ryou?"

"Yes," Ryou acknowledged, and added reluctantly, "Ryou. It's _Bakura_ Ryou, actually."

The red eyes went wide, then narrow, calculating. "It doesn't explain the uncanny resemblance, but it certainly adds to the mystery. Okay, Ryou, tell me about your family. How old are you, mundane-wise?"

"I'm turning sixteen in a few months," said Ryou truthfully. "I lived in England, with my parents and my older sister, until Mum and Amane were killed in separate accidents. Dad's a full Japanese, so he brought me back to Japan and rented out an apartment. He's an archaeologist, and his digs usually leave me alone in the apartment for months at a time. We were in Japan for two years, before I traded my soul in for a schoolmate's. My dad—"

"That's another thing," Bakura interrupted. "Not many mundanes know the processes involved with the soulmarket, and even if they do, they wouldn't be so foolish as to _trade_ their soul in without any hope of compensation."

Ryou flushed a chalky pink. "My mother was part-witchling. She taught me most of what I know about the worlds and sublevels, before she died. And after she died, I found her books. . .and I taught myself more. I can't do any basics; I just don't have the blood. I think I might be a quadroon or an octoroon, I'm not sure. Either way, the spellcasting abilities went to my sister, and she's been dead for four years now. My mother wasn't full-blooded, either—she was witchling and human, and something else along with that." He took a shuddering breath. "Angelic. There had to have been some angelic in her, I know it. Mum was. . ._hontou ni,_ she was an angel. . ._tenshi_.

"Jounouchi's little sister was going blind. He wanted her to see again, but it seemed a pity to me that she would never be able to see _him_, once he'd gone through with his deal. And I haven't got anyone anyway, so I traded mine in." Ryou shrugged. "It was quite simple at the time."

"What about your father?"

"Dad?" Ryou considered, his lips tightening. "Dad doesn't need me. After Amane died, he was devastated. And after Mum died, he didn't think he could live anymore. He's a shell, and I'm nothing but a living reminder of his wife and daughter. Now that I'm gone, he won't have to remember."

He exhaled. "Is there. . .is there anything else you wanted to know?"

"Oh, several things," said Bakura casually, with a suggestive wink. Ryou grasped the meaning in his red eyes and slowly colored. "But I'm sure I'll find those _other _niceties out in good time."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

They reviewed his contract together, Bakura pointing out a few do's and don'ts along the way. The one the silver fiend emphasized most was to stay clear of Medusa's fanged tails; the second-most, stay clear of Lucifer's hairballs—apparently Lucifer was also a cat, though of what size and manner Ryou could not fathom—which were not hairballs but, rather, spherical lightning bolts, and, occasionally orbs of shadow magic, depending on his mood. Needless to say, Ryou did not relish the thought of meeting up with one of Bakura's pets in a darkened hallway.

"Be careful of the other souls," Bakura warned, after they had both signed the contract again to signal that they had completed the review. "They aren't like you. They sold their souls, whether for noble or selfish purposes, you'll discover in good time. They're bitter."

"Sara," said Ryou suddenly. "Tell me about Sara."

"You're taking liberties, Ryou," said Bakura, "but I've never had anyone like you before anyway. I'll make a few exceptions in your case. Ryou. What do you want to know about Sara, Ryou?" He said Ryou's name as though it were some delicacy he'd never had before, repeating it several times throughout his sentences, his red eyes warm with excitement—but the emotion that lit his face was the kind of excitement that one felt over a new plaything.

"Everything. Tell me everything about her." Ryou leaned forward. "Everything you can remember about Sara."

"Kisaraesh'efarim. . ." Bakura tapped his bleached chin with his forefinger. "Sara, for short. I had haven trying to pronounce her name initially. She's a sweet thing, Sara. I do believe I acquired her ten mundane years ago—that's three in demonic, Ryou. Yes. . .it was a private auction where I got her." _Acquired her. Acquired. Like a priceless Ming vase, a soulless _thing The phrasing sent chills edging down Ryou's spine. "This was during an uneasy truce—which was broken last year, and we've gone back to open warfare—and she was such a pretty little soul. She didn't cost that much. I think two-fifty sever, something like that. . .

"What did she sell her soul for? Something silly and childish. Selfish. I forgave her, whatever it was she did. I'd have to look it up if you want the specifics—"

"How old is she?"

"How old?" Bakura chuckled. "She's a grave faerie, closer to time faeries than the pixies. They usually live six times longer than humans, grave faeries, watching over the cemeteries over your world and its sublevels. But that has nothing to do with it—just telling you the facts, in case you haven't read up on Sara's kind yet." He fiddled around with the bandana, jerking it down around his neck. Moon-hued hair twined back over his face in feral wisps. "I think she was seven or eight when she did it. Her mind has changed, certainly, since that time. . .nothing else, though."

Ryou gaped, horror washing over him in waves. "You mean. . .she'll always look eight years old, for the rest of her life?"

"Not life, eternity." The cruelly whimsical smile on Bakura's face grew, the jeweled eyes glimmered scarlet. "That was her contract. She'll mature mentally, surely, but her body will never change." Bakura leaned closer yet and kissed him, a lingering touch of the lips; Ryou felt his mouth blistering from the contact. Then the demon pulled away and breathed the damning words:

"Just like you will always be eternally almost-sixteen, from now on."

The magnitude of what he had done finally sank in, and Ryou felt the first _real_ tears spill hotly from his eyes.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

"Jesus Christ on a _crutch_!" Jou swore, shaking his fist from within the magic-bubble where Kaiba had imprisoned him. "What the fuck is the big idea anyway, Kaiba, waking me up at two-friggin'-a.m. and dragging me down to the goddamn underworld?! I'm done with this world and your kind! Sure, Ryou is an idiot who needs rescuing, but I plan on doing that on my own terms, not yours!"

He glared around the empty city, all but _daring_ someone to appear and spirit him away from the maniacal fiend who was now taking him to the nearest portal to the demonic underworld. Domino City was predictably silent. No insomniacs today—not even that old lady next door—wasn't she usually up with some complaint or another? _Keh. Stupid bitch overdoses on pills tonight of all nights! _Stupid luck, stupid life, _stupid demon-with-the-grim-reaper-complex, pulling me down to hell with him!_

Kaiba evaporated the bubble, dumping him unceremoniously on the sidewalk. "Can it, mutt. We've got a lot to do before the sun rises."

"_We_?!" said Jou furiously, brandishing his toothbrush at the demon in wide, badly-aimed arcs. "There you go with the 'we' again! There is no 'we,' is that clear? You grabbed me before I could even get dressed! Take me home, goddamn you!"

A pause.

"If I return you to your home and allow you to get dressed, will you come willingly—or, more importantly, _quietly_?" said Kaiba.

"Hell no!" Jounouchi yelled, and took off in a dead-sprint in the other direction. He was bent on escaping—no idea where he would go, but the subway was near, and maybe he could grab a late-night train and end up in Tokyo—somewhere where this psychopath couldn't find him. He hadn't gotten more than ten meters before being snatched up by a similar energy-orb; the demon's footsteps clicked until he _knew_ the other was standing directly beneath him. Jou growled and looked down—sure enough, Kaiba was staring up at him, his eyes a wall of impassable blue.

_Goddamn that grim-reaper-complex!_

"Logically, I can't release you, then," said Kaiba. "I would appreciate your full cooperation, but it's become clear to me that you're not willing to cooperate in any way, shape, or form."

_So quiet. . .where _is_ everyone?!_

"What the hell do you want with me, anyway?" demanded Jou, deciding to stall for time while simultaneously giving the demon a lovely view of both his third fingers.

The demon's voice cut the city air like a knife. "I'm looking for someone. Several people, actually. I've also got a side goal to take over Hades and claim Shaitan's throne for my own, while I'm at it. You're my ticket back in to the demonic underworld. To get all this done, I need to be able to enter my world first. And to do that, you, Jounouchi Katsuya, are _instrumental_."

Kaiba made a jerking motion with his hand, and Jou fell to the concrete in a heap, hauling himself to his feet as speedily as possible. The demon's icy eyes were boring holes in the back of his skull.

"Don't argue anymore, mutt," the demon warned, "or I'll drag you down to hell by force, and that's never a pleasant experience."

"Oh," said Jou eloquently, and shut up, following the demon wordlessly down the street, head down, hands in pockets, shivering in his pajamas. He did give one last look and thought to his apartment, though—and Shizuka, sleeping within; Shizuka, half-blind still; Shizuka, eyes almost healed.

_Shizuka. . .I'll be back soon—you'll see me yet. And I'll come back _with_ Ryou._

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

The demon smiled lopsidedly. His yellow hair hadn't seen a comb or gel for days; it lay half-limp, half-stiff across his scalp. Blue-black kohl ran down his face in jagged lines as though he'd been weeping. His cape was torn and the clothing beneath it was soiled with several unnamable substances. His breath stank of alcohol, and it was very clear that he was intoxicated beyond coherency.

"Marikku, you're drunk," said Bakura sternly, setting down a mug of jasmine tea in front of the other demon's haggard face. "And not off my vodka stores, either. Where the haven have you been?"

"Here and there," slurred Marikku, with a drunken laugh.

Bakura smiled, angelic in appearance for a fraction of a second. He had swapped his reading glasses and robes for a knee-length shenti and gossamer red mantle. Silver powdered his cheekbones, lavender dust dyed his hair faint purple. His eyes, turned hazy violet by the dust, were lined loosely with gray-black kohl. The small café area was being expanded, in preparation for clubbing hours, by several white-clad souls, scurrying back and forth behind the two demons. "Of course you have. Care to elaborate?"

"Not part'c'larly," Marikku mumbled. "I'll get to it when I feel like it. . .keep your bunny-wingsh on. . .bat-earsh. . .bunny. . ._bunny earsh_. . ."

"Sober up," said Bakura seriously. "You're a mess."

Marikku groaned and buried his head in his arms, his lips disfigured against the curve of his bronzed hand. "Dun. . .dun feel like it. . .sho-bering. . .sho-bering. . .meansh hangoversh. . ._dishgusting_ feeling. . .take it nice and. . ._ah_. . .sh. . .sh-low. . ." He flinched visibly as Bakura placed a hand on his tanned forehead and forced the alcohol out of his bloodstream in three successive flashes. "Ouch. . ._fuck_ you, Bakura. You Shaitan-blessed fag, that fucking _hurt_."

Bakura laughed. "Pathetic. You're just pathetic, Marikku Ishtal."

"Ugh. . .my head hurts. . .bless-it, Bakura, you fucking arsehole. It would've gone away eventually. You didn't have to do that. Frik-frik-frik. . .jackhammer in my head. . .Shaitan, I sound like Keith. . .I'm such a drunk. . .ow, ow, _ow_, bless you, Bakura, you bastard. . ."

"I love you too, Marikku," said Bakura, grinning madly.

"Ugh." Marikku's head fell against the countertop with a resounding clang. He straightened a moment later, rubbing his forehead. "Sounded fucking _empty_. . .hollow-head. . .bleh. I _enjoy_ being drunk, you know, Bakura. . .you're missing out on a lovely, lovely feeling. . .feeling like _nothing_. . .it's like a mental holiday. . ."

"Drunkenness is a quality I don't admire," said Bakura dryly with a wicked smirk. "Alcohol can only bring people to ruin. I, of course, intend to make the most profit out of their ruin by doing what I do."

"Oh, shut up, you've never been drunk, you don't know the feeling—" Marikku's joking façade crumpled. "Malik," he whispered, and buried his face in his hands. "Malik, Malik, Malik. I didn't have any more to bid, Bakura. Nothing else. I haven't any thing else of value—that feather—that blessed roc's feather! Bless Pegasus. . .good old Pegsy. . .Shaitan bless him. . .Shaitan bless him and pull him up to haven! I. . .I don't want anything else anymore. Just him. Just Malik," he said brokenly. "_Malik._"

"You blessed arrogant fool," said Bakura softly. "Why do you love him so blessed much?"

Marikku glanced up, Bakura's visage reflected in his blue-gray eyes. He smiled desperately. "Someone like you, Bakura," he said flatly, "could never understand."

Bakura sulked. "Don't be like that, Marikku."

"Don't be coy, then. You have lavender dust in your hair, did you know that? How much did it cost you, thirty-four hundred sever?"

"Two ancient ferry tickets to Arachne, actually," said Bakura, eyes glinting mysteriously. "I must say, it was a good bargain. Those tickets were for one of those rickety old dungeon-on-the-seas, relic from the last war, must be at least sixty years demonic kind of crafts." He snorted. "It'll teach that princeling brat a thing or two, I'm sure. I hope," he added with sick relish, "he gets seasick."

"I heard you bought a soul at that auction," Marikku continued as if he hadn't heard, somewhat angrily. His head was throbbing with the last aftershocks of speed-sobering. "The one where I lost Malik. I heard you paid zilch for that soul. And I also heard he looks a great deal like you. So I came to visit, get the facts."

"You've heard a great deal," said Bakura, leaning forward on his forearms. "And most of it accurate, I'm surprised.

"Certainly, the resemblance is a bit unnerving," the red-eyed fiend admitted, twisting a bunch of silver around his index finger. "But he's nothing like me. He's part witchling and maybe even a bit angelic—definitely some faerie blood in there, you can see it in the eyes. The most beautiful green eyes. . ." Bakura nodded as he spoke, his silver head bobbing up and down. "He's cute and quite interesting. . .blushes seven shades of crimson, if you know how to. . ._ah_. . .you know."

Marikku shook his head, sighing ruefully. "That's exactly what I mean, Bakura. It's all or nothing—everyone or no one—for you. You're out trying to seduce half the underworld sometimes, I swear." He grinned, showing fangs. "You're a scary demon, all right, but I don't think your mind is wired quite correctly for a monogamous relationship. Have you ever _had_ a steady relationship with anyone at all? I don't think you have. I can't recall, in the two millennia I've known you."

"I don't think I want one," Bakura shot back masterfully, "judging from the _agony_ and _pain_ that such a relationship has caused you."

"Fuck off," snarled Marikku, hackles rising. He deflated a moment later. "Okay, okay, the real reason I'm here: I want a strawberry vodka. Make it two, actually. They're impossible to get anywhere else. Stop smirking at me, _bless_it. I want to get drunk and you're not going to stop me."

"No, I'm not," said Bakura, eyes shining red with mirth. He held out his hand. "That'll be fourteen dezsras, old friend of mine. Pay up."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

"What?" Amano paused the brush mid-stroke through his luxuriant dark hair and turned, his amber eyes wide. "Do you mean to tell me that the Master's pulled you off club shifts?"

Ryou, sitting cross-legged on the bunk opposite the other soul, nodded.

"He wasn't on to begin with, remember, Amano?" said Jin-Ho. She jingled as she walked; her forearms and ankles were adorned with several brilliantly-colored bangles. Jin-Ho finished tying her hair up with a deft knot in the silver ribbon and posed dramatically in front of the mirror. "Morning shifts only, Monday through Thursday and Saturday, gets all Fridays off except Black and Thirteenths, and cleans Sunday. Am I right, Ryou?"

She was so candid and friendly it was impossible to conceive that this was the same Jin-Ho who had been whispering behind his back that morning. Ryou nodded again, smiling at her. "Yes, exactly right."

Jin-Ho shook her head. "I don't see why. Club shifts are fun; you get to meet such interesting demons."

"_Ee,_" Amano chimed in. He chuckled, separating his hair into three long hanks. "If you're thinking _we_'re being used for unscrupulous purposes, you're wrong. Master Bakura provides all the entertainment; we're just there to serve drinks. Okay, so we do get harassed a bit, but everyone's drunk, so it's all in good fun, really." He began to braid his hair with a pout. "I guess it's 'cause you're a newbie. That's too bad."

"Does Sara work the club shifts?" asked Ryou.

"Sara?" Jin-Ho threaded another bauble into her elaborately plaited tresses. "Yeah, she does, normally. She's been here before all of us, so I don't know how thing were when she first got here. But yeah, she usually does the club shifts with us."

_So why not me?_

Jin-Ho seemed to be thinking the same thing. "You know, that's really weird," she said. "I mean, if Sara can work shifts and _she_ looks like a five-year-old to most demons, why wouldn't you be allowed to? You were definitely older when you sold your soul. How old are you, anyway?"

Ryou felt his eyes burning with unshed tears. "'Eternally almost-sixteen,'" he quoted softly, "'from now on.'"

Amano was dabbing his mouth carefully with red lacquer. "That's not so bad," he said. "I mean, look at Sara. She's got to be at least twice our age in her mind, but she's stuck looking half our age physically. You were at a good age to sell. Most people do it when they're older, but then their souls retain a bit of that physical age—wrinkles around the mouth and eyes, usually. So your selling age was _perfect_."

"Clubbing isn't all that exciting," said Jin-Ho quickly, mistaking the revolted look on Ryou's face for disappointment. "You're not missing much, really."

"Tell me about it," said Ryou suddenly. "I want to know."

"Why tell you when I can show you?" said Jin-Ho. "Clubbing shifts start ten minutes before sundown. Margot, Sara, and Dejaah have first four shifts—'cause that's when tamer types show—but Amano, Kace, and I take the last five shifts for the tougher sorts. We overlap shifts, usually. Tell you what, Ryou—I'm gonna show you a good time tonight!"

"What?" said Ryou blankly.

"Isn't it obvious?" Amano winked at him. "We're smuggling you in. Jin-Ho has a spare uniform and you're about the same size, too, so you can see what it's like, just for tonight. I'm sure Master Bakura wouldn't mind."

"_Hontou_?" Ryou said, eyes shining. "Would you really?"

"Sure thing!" said Amano, grinning at Ryou's excitement. "You look like you need something to get your mind off of everything else, anyway. We've got about seventeen souls on shift at once, so I doubt Master Bakura will notice. And if he does, I don't think he'll do anything about it. He'll let you slip. Come on, grab Jin-Ho's spare. We'll dress you up."

Jin-Ho beamed. "Yes, let's! It'll be fun. I've got just the thing for you, this glitzy dark green eyeliner. . ."

The tapers in their room flared as, outside, the sun melted into darkness. Below, Ryou heard the music beginning, a rowdy rock tune. _'Midnight came, the pumpkin smashed, and her dress went to rags, so Cinderella broke her glass slipper and kicked her fucking old step mother out. . .'_

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

A/N: _Thanksgiving as a holiday is annoying, but I can't help but enjoy the five-day break and use it to my advantage. Lo and behold, Faust3 has been written, a full two weeks earlier than schedule. Fanfiction's brief posting-halt was kind of irritating. . .but oh well. I've posted now. _

_Yami no Yuugi on television this morning was unbelievably hot. He was so brutal! (glows) Silly Weevil should know better than to pretend to hurt Yuugi. Wow. . .I'm blown away by the sexiness of Yami's scary berserker attitude. Anzu-chan shouldn't have grabbed his arm! He should have kept attacking! Wow._

_I don't think anything really new about the demonic underworld was introduced in this chapter at all, but there are still a few things I want to clarify (as usual.)_

Demonic currency, as compared to American currency, goes like this. Severs are like dollars, but used for large things, generally priced hundred and up. Dezsras are dollars used for hundred and lower, and then we have the loose change, which I don't think will come into this story at all, because I'm too lazy to think any more conversion rates up. The bartering system runs alongside for items or services that would cost twenty dezsras and up.

Featherdust in general is excruciatingly rare, since the only three beings that have "magical" feathers are phoenixes, angels, and genetic-mutations-of-demons. Lavender-colored wings are even more rare, making Yami's gift of featherdust to Bakura rather priceless.

To clarify: I do mean to say 'haven,' and not 'heaven.'

Lucifer is a cat. We'll meet him soon, I promise. And Kaiba is something of an elemental mage, though we haven't gotten too much into him yet. Jounouchi is, for our purposes, a clueless mundane citizen, who knows nothing of the realms save for his brief encounter with the demonic soulmarket. And on mythology, it was Athena who cursed Medusa. I think I meant to say Athena before. . .it just came out as Atlanta. (sweatdrop)

Music used today was X Japan's 'Celebration.' I found that line incredibly amusing, and it ended the chapter in a kind of skewed way, which I liked also. (lopsided maniac grin) X Japan has lovely music. It's either scarily hard rock or sweet/twisted love ballads. (sweatdrop) Of course, they disbanded seven years ago, I think. . .anyway, check them out!

Ryou's lips did _not_ blister because Bakura is an awesome kisser. (Although he is.) They blistered because Ryou's soul-skin is incredibly sensitive right now. Kissing a demon would be like kissing fire for him. Do you remember the cross-shaped brand? Yep, exactly like that.

Yuugi and Yami will be back soon.

Sara's situation sound vaguely familiar? It should. I've been reading the Vampire Chronicles recently.

A/N: _Any other questions, email or review, and I'll try to get back to you on 'em! (cough) The amount of junk in this story is amazing. But the plot is starting to move. Kaiba sets out with Jou, Ryou learns more, Marikku vows revenge. . .dun dun dun! And Pegsy is just sitting in the middle of this quaffing grape juice with a FunnyBunny plushie._

**To all Reviewers:** (glomp) I haven't words. Thank you so much.

TRT-sama: He didn't meow as much this chapter, is that better? (snuggle) Wuvv you, silly Itooshi-chan.

Saffron-Starlight: Confusion is lovely! Thanks for reviewing, I hope you liked this chapter too!

Chelley Angel: (sweatdrop) You're right. . .I wasn't thinking about that. I can't change it now, so. . .how 'bout we pretend Yuugi speaks a dialect? Like. . .Cantonese or something. I don't know. I can understand a bit of Hokkien (sp?) but not Cantonese. . .meh. Thanks for reviewing!

Hyacinthus: You think so? I think I'm taking extreme liberties now. But that's what makes it fun. . .

Elle-Fate2x1-2: It _is_ very important. . .problem is, I have to think it up first. . .(falls over)

Misori Chan: Necromancy sounds like fun to me. Have you read Sabriel? I guess you have. That was an awesome book. Actually, I like everything by Garth Nix. . .

Hales731: Yuugi's language is a take off Mandarin, but as Chelley Angel-san pointed out, my accents were a bit off. So we're going to pretend Yuugi speaks a dialect instead, like Cantonese, perhaps.

Anime Crazed: The way I wrote Bakura kind of reminds me of one of my bishies. I just love him (Bakura, that is.)

Kyoko-san: Rules are made to be broken! Bakura is blessed sexy, yes. Eccentricity rocks! I've never read xholic or seen it, what's it about?

Ann: Thanks!

Eve-Of-Misery: (odd smile) It gets worse, trust me. Mwahahaha!

Reincarnated Magick: Did you like this chapter? It's a bit stranger than usual. I was aiming for angst but it sort of lightened up along the way, and Bakura-chan kissed Ryou, which is always a plus.

Destiny's Dragon: Of course I'll keep writing! Maybe not forever on FanFiction. . .hey, if Anne Rice can publish something so incredibly slashy, then I can too!

MillenniumDreamer: Aw, thanks. (blush) And I'll explain Yuugi soon enough. There are a lot of twists and turns to get out, yet! I'm very excited about them. More-so excited about how much I'm going to shock you guys! (cackles)

The Sabbit: I hope this chapter cleared up some of the mystery surrounding Ryou's family. Of course, we don't know how his mother and sister died yet. When I figure that out, I'll be sure to tell you. (cough cough) Oh, Pocky! Thank you! (eats) Do I get my plushie now? (holds out arms hopefully)

Pork Steak the Grande: Less cat-ish noises today. I haven't seen bishie in a long time, so I haven't heard any _new_ cat-like noises. (sweatdrop) Teehee, confusion is good! I promise it will all make sense in a few chapters.

Sylistop Yumeorb: There will be a chapter with some background on the various cities. That comes in with the explanation about Yuugi-being-in-hell and Yami-being-on-the-run, too. Thank you! I like taking weird angles about stuff. . .

Evil Chibi Malik: Well. . .Bishounen and Bishoujo. . .Bish'es is born! They're Bakura's staff. Thank you. And you're brilliant, have I told you? You can draw so well! (oozes jealousy)

DarkShadowFlame: (cough) Yea, I didn't realize that about Yuumeishipping! (Which I also can't seem to spell right. . .is it a double 'u' or double 'i'?) I'm glad someone told me before it became too glaringly embarrassing. (falls over) Ehehehe. Does the world seem that realistic? Really? (tear) Thank you!

Hieirulesall: I like long chapters too. . .they're just a pain to write sometimes. (sweatdrop)

Yami hitokiri: (blush) That's so weird. . .the guys on my bus were calling me Jesus the other day, too. . .maybe it's true! Maybe I _am _a god! _Not_. I think it's just my hair. . .mleh. Thank you. (bow)

_Next chapter: _

_Ryou gets a glimpse at Dahlia nightlife. War looms on the horizon. Vampires, sexy cage dancers, and demonic usurpers galore—all in Faust 4!_

_Thanks again to all, and see you next time!_

_ryuujitsu & co._

_PS: I haven't a clue for the next update. I can give you an estimate, though, and that's probably going to be end-december, mid-january. Stats on the upcoming Faust4 will be in my bio from time to time._


	4. eighty years ago

FAUST

yuugiou fanfiction

ryuujitsu & co.

chapter four: eighty years ago

Disclaimer: Saying Yuugiou belongs to us is like saying de Nile is just a river in Egypt. Let's face it—it's _not_. De-nial gets you nowhere! (Seki-sama-like grin) Bad jouku, bad jouku.

A/N: _Ahem. That was a Tomokazu Seki-sama moment, brought to you by yours truly. I've been watching my old Esca extras this holiday, what can I say. Hooray for reviewer response! I love you all. I started this chapter exactly a week ago, and no sooner than I finish six pages than the entire bloody system conks out. (sigh) It took a week, but the computer fixed itself long enough for me to retrieve the Faust4 file and plug it into my father's laptop! With a delightful red and black floppy, and silver gel pen. I love this floppy! It's so pretty. (gushes) Ahem. Anywho, I'm not sure when the PC will be up and running smoothly again, but in the mean time, Faust will be written between school and laptop, until this laptop also dies. It's on its last legs. . ._

_This chapter is a little more abstract—or you could just say 'incoherent'—because we're jumping time, jumping locations. . .jumping Ryou. . .(snigger) Got your attention, didn't I? We're not jumping Ryou. . .Bakura is, though. . .ahem._

_Oops. I don't know if any of you are wondering about people's ages in this thing (like how Bakura could be involved in a war eighty years ago and not be rotting underground), but if you are, suffice it to say that not only does time work differently between worlds, but all magical creatures live much longer than humans. (reads sentence over) Did that make sense? _

_Well, I tried._

_Still dedicated to Itooshi! Will this pass as a meager Christmas present?_

ITFTC:

"i'll be responsible for your mental trauma in the hospital"

- Yukari

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

The fighting around him slid in and out of focus. He could hear the singing of blades and the screamed enchantments, smell the acrid stench of burning demonic wings—see, as if through a twisted lens, the demonic sorcerers as they rose again and again to meet the angelic waves, black fire glowing in their hands. _Screaming. Pain. O, God!_

Blood. It was raining blood.

Sugoroku was crouched, panting, behind the bodies of his comrades—two lower caste angels, white feathers desecrated with their own blood. His hands, trembling and stained red, clutched at the four lifeless wings. He could hear his own breathing—harsh heavy sobs that flowed from his throat, the wretched gasping as air forced its way back in. The three fiery swords lay extinguished, one—his, with the blue hilt—still smoldering, on the bloodied ground.

He raised his eyes to the reddened sky, the one he'd seen every day now for the past five years. _O, God! Can you see us? Do you see your angels falling?_

A demon tore by him in a whirlwind of black magic, palms full of unholy fire, taking him as one of casualties of the third wave. Sugoroku smiled wryly, contemplating the cauterized stump that had been his left wing. He certainly felt dead; it wouldn't be the greatest assumption to say that he most likely _looked_ dead as well. _Ah, God, God. . .my wings!_ He hadn't performed a healing spell for fear of being discovered, so his right wing, broken in four places, remained an impossibility to retract and hide. He had arranged it across his sprawled body like a shroud, hiding his face, hiding the jerking of his shoulders, the tears in his eyes.

His hands fisted in the dead angels' wings. "Arthur," he said thickly, looking out at the smoke rising over the battle, wondering where his friend was. "Arthur, you were right. . .we should have never come. . ."

_It's stupid, that's what this is,_ Arthur had said, the night they set out for the underworld. _I despise this war._

"She was. . ." Sugoroku could remember the woman—the angel who started the war, their very own Helen of Troy. . .thick, thick red-gold hair, such beautiful violet eyes. He had never known her face, but he had heard tales—the demons had her, Shaitan's son himself had her, to do with as he pleased. . .! "She was. . .so beautiful, though. . ."

Still Arthur's face haunted him, banishing away the memory of the woman. _I heard she went willingly. I heard she loved that son of hell!_

"Arthur. . ."

It was the bodies of the two dead angels that saved him. The explosion cleaved them to shreds; feathers gusted around him as he was thrown into the air. Impact was hard, dirt forcing its way into his mouth. Bewildered, blood dripping from the gash in his forehead and pooling around the wound in his side, Sugoroku raised himself slowly onto his elbows. It wasn't black magic—nothing like black magic—something darker, something ancient. It surrounded him and invaded his senses like a vile cloud. _God! They have something. A secret weapon. Arthur, Arthur! Are you still alive, Arthur? O, God—God!_

He saw the cat first—a mammoth cat, larger than a man, with nine tails that whipped back and forth and hissed like snakes, their forked tongues flickering. He was certain it was a cat and not a tiger, despite the monster's gargantuan proportions. _O, the devil's own creature!_ He recoiled, crying out in horror. The massive feline's back was arched, claws extended—each claw the size of a small bloodied dagger, looking twice as sharp. Sugoroku's vision swam. _I've lost too much blood, I'm seeing things. . .this can't be real!_ And beside the orange-and-black cat—

The demon was ever-silent as he reached up and touched the monster's muzzle gently with one delicate, stark-white hand. Sugoroku watched, almost inanely, as the cat purred—a loud rumble that shook the very earth—and rubbed its head against the white, white hand. The demon's cloak was made of some fine, new material, earthy in color—unblemished by any filth from the battlefield. He was clean—white, pristine—so pure it was blasphemy—_Where is the blood?_

Eyes. Red eyes like the devil!

_The blood_, Sugoroku mumbled to himself, feeling his body tensing. _The blood is in his eyes_.

_They say there is a demon,_ said Arthur, another night as they flew without words, counting their wingbeats to pass time. _A demon with red eyes who is not a son of Shaitan, like the others with red in their gazes. It is a monster with the eyes of the devil himself! He works magic like none we've seen. If it is true. . ._

". . .it will be massacre." Sugoroku's breath was shallower now. _Arthur. Arthur, you knew!_

The demon laughed—slow, delighted laughter. His laughter was insanity; Sugoroku thought he would go mad hearing it. The red-eyed demon moved forward, raising his hands high over his head, the long fingers forming an unrecognizable symbol. "Ah-ah-ah, something isn't right," he sing-songed, smiling with childish glee. The old magic was gathering around his hands, around his body, whipping the cloak to and fro as he stepped over the bodies, on them, his keen red eyes searching the field. His hair was whiter than his skin and just as pristine. "Someone isn't quite dead yet!"

Arthur's eyes had been so soft that night—dark hazy green, like the forest they were camped in, as they nestled in the treetops folding their wings in. _Hey, Solomon_, he'd said quietly. _Hey, Solomon. . ._

_I'm dead; you can't see me. I'm dead; you can't see me. I'm dead; you can't see me. I'm dead; you can't see me_. It had become the mantra in Sugoroku's head, the Holy Mary rosary of the moment. He had bitten his lips through in an effort to keep quiet. _I'm dead—you can't see me! You can't see me! Oh, God! Help me!_

"Meow." It was a sultry whisper, a deadly exotic silk like the hand cupping his chin. "Hello there, poppet."

Sugoroku opened his eyes and realized he'd had them screwed shut. _So young. He's. . .so young._ _His eyes!_ He couldn't tear his gaze away from those eyes—he could see Arthur—Arthur's last moments—

"You killed him!" his voice was hoarse. "You killed Arthur!"

"Mm, maybe I did," said the demon, pressed a white, white finger to his pink lips. _His hands are clean. . ._ "I can't remember." He smiled again, a smile that involved no teeth—a small press of those lips together, edges curled up. "Any last words? I've always wanted to ask that, but they die too quickly to answer. . ."

_I'm going to die. Elmira—Elmira. . ._

He opened his mouth—

"_Bekhara! Lla, Bekhara!_" The olde demonic was all rhythm, a smooth, terrified flow, erupting in a torrent from the mouth of a blonde demon, running at the red-eyed monster. Sugoroku's mind translated through the mist that had filled his thoughts. "_What are you doing? That's the thousandth of thousands! Stop, Bekhara! You're going to break the limit, the contract will be terminated! Bekhara, _no"

The blonde demon was meters away—even sprinting dead out, he wouldn't make it in time.

_He's too far away. I'm going to die. Yvonne. . .you'll be waiting for me, won't you? And. . .Elmira. . .I wanted to see. . .I wanted to see your son. . .my grandson. . .I wonder. . .what. . .what he will look like. . ._

"Shaitan blessit! Bekhara—_lla!_" a final desperate scream. The other demon was still running. "You'll die! The thousandth of thousands—it's the one you're about to kill!"

The red-eyed demon looked curious now, stretching his white, white fingers towards Sugoroku's temples. They made contact with a shock; Sugoroku's flinch became a full-body shudder. He could feel the old magic coursing through the other's veins, pulling at them both. "Are you sure you haven't any last words, angel? That's disappointing. I haven't heard any last words _all day_."

Sugoroku's mouth was dry. _He's going to kill me. _"I want. . .to see. . ."

That night. . .that night as they rested in the trees. _Hey, Solomon._ Such a blunt question. . .but, then, Arthur had always been straightforward. . .always to the point. . ._Hey, Solomon. Do you love me, Solomon?_

_No. . .no, I don't, I don't—I'm sorry, I'm sorry. . .God, I'm sorry, Arthur—I love Yvonne and I love Elmira and I love the grandson I will never see—_

"I want to see Arthur," he whispered, through the tears in his voice.

The smile widened into a pearly smirk as the fingers dug deeper into his temples. "That can be arranged," said the demon, and his _ka_, concentrated in his fingertips, jolted through Sugoroku's mind like quicksilver.

_"Lla!"_ wailed the blonde demon. He'd lost his footing, crumbling to the earth with horror ringing in his voice. "Bekhara! Bekhara!"

"You are. . .the thousandth of thousands. The contract is terminated," said the red-eyed demon faintly, and, through clouding vision, Sugoroku thought he saw a look of fear flash across the white, white face, though he heard a violent yowl as the gargantuan cat bounded forward to save her master—

And then he could only see Arthur—legs crossed, warming his wings by the fire. His eyes were soft dark green, like the treetops that surrounded them, watching as Sugoroku blew on his hands, a steady mist of gray breath, vanishing into the chilly air.

Arthur hesitated, then leaned forward and opened his mouth. _Hey, Solomon_, he said. _Hey, Solomon._

Sugoroku smiled.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

The Crown Prince drummed his fingers on his thigh and fumed. It was raining outside—and, due to the overly leaky roof of the Arachne ferry, it was also raining inside. The boat was deserted, its sole occupants being Yami, the angel, and the ferry's ancient navigator. The ferry—_Milady Selkie_, as christened by the elderly captain—was plastered with old advertisements, equipped with a dying engine and a perforated sheet of tin to keep out the rain. It rode the increasingly choppy waves like a drowning dog would—not at all. Yami blew wet black hair out of his eyes and fumed some more. The few choice words he hurled into the damp air were directed at Bakura, wherever the trickster was.

_Two more days aboard this floating death-trap._

Crouched in the driest section of the open deck (where Yami had placed him with stern orders not to move), the angel was watching him. It sneezed twice in a row, but its large eyes remained fixed upon him, searching.

_"Ni dsai kan sheh'me?_" said Yami roughly. The angel flinched at his tone, then offered him a watery violet smile.

"Colddd?" Yuugi said softly.

The Crown Prince resisted the urge to shiver. "Not in the least," he said, and added imperiously, as the angel tilted its eyebrows with uncharacteristic sarcasm, "_Yuutsi, ni tin' wo de hwa. _Don't bother."

The angel ignored him and came closer, maroon spots of sea-spray mingled with raindrops appearing on his red uniform. The rain quickened, beating the tin roof like a continuous roll of thunder. Yuugi's pursed mouth was determined as he ventured, "Will we sssee mermaiddds in weatherr like this, Yami?"

"No. Sublevel only. Holes in mundane oceans."

"Wet?"

"No." Yami pretended not to notice the rivulets of water dripping from his forehead, nose, and cheekbones.

"Tired?"

"No." He subdued a yawn and glared.

"Hungry?"

"Nn—" his stomach growled loudly, and the angel smiled smugly "—yes. No. Slightly. Argh. _Shaitan-blessit_."

The angel reached into his uniform and procured two thick slices of wheat bread and a hard green apple, which he then waved under Yami's nose. "Still drrry," he tempted. "Fresshhh-baked, angel variety, Yami. Light as—clouddd, but will fill quite nicelyy. Do you want?"

Yami eyed the apple. "The forbidden fruit?" he asked sardonically.

The angel colored rosily, stammering, "Er. . .well, you couldd cerrrtainly look at it that wayyy, yess. Um. . .?!"

The Crown Prince blinked. More by accident than design, he had tried to bite the apple while the angel was brandishing it and had missed entirely, the two sharp points of his canines skimming over the fruit and latching firmly onto the angel's petite hand instead. The angel squeaked once and froze, staring wide-eyed at the juice that was dripping down from a corner of Yami's shocked mouth.

The apple slipped from the angel's nerveless grasp, bounced across the deck and rolled off into the waves.

"Ah," said Yuugi, seeming to have regained his voice. Or not. He swallowed twice, eyes bulging, ears reddening. "Ah. . .um. . .erm. . ."

"Bugger this," grumbled Yami, sounding rather muffled since he was speaking around the hand between his teeth. "Mphh. Sorry," he muttered, red-facedly, though he made no move to pull away. It was the angel who finally reached out with its free hand and, gently but deftly, prised the demon's jaws open, pulling the damaged hand back and cradling the limb to its small body.

The angel's clothing was wet, dripping with rain- and sea-water, but the angel itself was dry as a midsummer day—glowing with a makeshift umbrella-enchantment. Edges of the semi-invisible halo glittered. The halo had been growing fainter with every day that Yuugi remained in the underworld, remained with the Crown Prince—if the cherub-angel didn't leave soon, it would join the ranks of the Fallen. Yami's brow wrinkled thoughtfully. He'd never heard of a Fallen cherub before.

_I met you on a day like this._

_It had been raining for days. Weeks, maybe, it was hard to remember. The world was gray. But the night I found you, the rain had stopped and the sky cleared for the first time in months. I could see the moon at last—the red, red moon. It entranced me that you were dry and pristine, while everything around you was so wet and dark._

Yami sent a quick, suspicious glance at the ferry's captain, but the old demon was caressing _Milady Selkie_'s prow with a hoary hand, mumbling to the peeling green-gray paint, paying the demon prince and the angel no mind.

"You don't want to Fall," he said matter-of-factly, and then paused pensively. "But. . .would you risk Falling. . .for me?"

The angel frowned, staring off into the stormy distance, its eyes twin tarns of violet turmoil. "Yes," it said finally, flushing to the tips of its stubby wings. "Yes, yes—oh, yes."

The pounding in his throat was halted so suddenly by relief that the Crown Prince was certain his heart had stopped. He knew in that moment what the angel had only half-divined in admitting it would Fall for him—

"Yuugi," Yami rasped, "look at me."

He didn't wait for the angel to obey. He took Yuugi's chin between his thumb and forefinger finger and turned the cherub toward him in that manner, and he kissed the angel three times—first the haloed forehead, then the rounded cheek, and then the soft pliant _willing_ mouth was his.

He had half-expected the angel to make some surprised noise, but the only sound that reached his ears now was the low sweet accent as ten petite fingers tightened in his hair:

"I'll do ittt—yyes, I'll Fall, I'llll Fall—_stay with me_—"

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Bakura's ANKH was alive with sound. Lunacy, a group from the northern province of Desr, had arrived in the bar-room via the switch system twenty minutes ago. They were warming up now, their pink-haired guitarist scuttling about plugging in the amps and adjusting them. He was wearing an obscenely short yukata and thigh-length black boots. _Ah_, thought Mana reverently, remembering a description of the band that she had read in a less-than-scrupulous B-L magazine. _So _this_ is Sugizo of the "fuck-me-now" boots._

_And this_, she thought witheringly, as Bakura shifted positions on the countertop in order to get a better look under the guitarist's yukata, _this is my master._

"Master Bakura. Master Bakura?"

Bakura's left eye twitched. "Meow?" he said blankly, not looking up from the yukata and boots. "Oh. What were you saying, Mana?"

"The landlady is here to see you," Mana repeated patiently, her mouth twisting in a way that indicated she was probably fairly close to strangling her demon master. "And if you don't mind, sir, I'd like to make use of your library, to get a start on my studies for tomorrow—if that's all right with you, of course."

"Fourth moon already?" said Bakura.

"It's the sixth of the fourth moon, sir," said Mana. "Considering Mistress Anzu's usual punctuality and. . .uh. . .spirit, this collection could be thought of as. . .lenient."

"Lenient? She's anything but. That demoness is a slave driver. Even worse, she bitches with a smile." Bakura ran his hands through his hair, pulling at the silvery hanks to make them stand on end. "Her timing is awful; the sun's going down. Where is she, anyway? Show her in and we'll get this over with."

"No need, Bakura-kun!"

The brown-haired demoness had appeared next to Bakura on the drink counter, her long legs folded beneath her. She was wearing her usual color—pink: Rosy shoes, baby-pink knee-socks, peach shorts, soft-pink suede shirt, hot pink leather jacket, as Anzu would say. _Pink-pink-and-more-pink_, as Bakura would say. Her eyes were blue, to their mutual disappointment. Anzu would have preferred violet-pink, as an extra charm. Bakura, on the other hand, would have preferred the pink eyes so that he would have more opportunities to call her rabid—and have a reason to justify doing it.

"Anzu," he said wearily. "The clubbing hasn't been going so well lately. . ."

"Now, now. Friends don't lie to each other, Bakura-kun," said Anzu cheerfully, although a warning gleam had surfaced in her not-pink eyes. "You're living the good life, I can tell."

Bakura eyed her caustically. "Yes, and the good life is entirely good when you're living in the middle of a war zone with demons dying left and right around you, wondering when your head is going to get blown off by some lunatic or another."

Anzu sighed, toying with the pink bow in her hair. "I'm crushed, Bakura-kun. Friends shouldn't be so cruel to one another, you know that."

"Yes, Anzu. And friends ought not to demand rent from one another either," said Bakura slowly, deliberately. The odd unpleasant smile, Mana saw, was beginning to disrupt his smooth white face.

Anzu had seen it too, for she dropped her over-happy mannerisms. "Look, Bakura-kun," she said gravely. "I rented this castle out to you because you needed it, but you can't expect me to carry on the charity act perpetually. As far as this castle goes, your debts are piling up. ANKH brings you delightful profits, so why don't you put some of that money into paying your rent? I'm afraid I might have to evict you soon, if you don't pay up. You owe me severs from last third moon, I hope you realize."

"I don't have the money right now," said Bakura flatly. "If you won't take grave dirt, then you're going to have to wait."

"Bakura-kun," Anzu continued as though she hadn't heard him, "I also have on my record a recent purchase, worth approximately eight hundred fifty sever. That sum alone would pay two months' worth of rent, but yet you insist on splurging it on useless trinkets—"

"They're cute trinkets," said Bakura dreamily, amusement replacing anger. "Especially the newest one; he's _lovely_."

Anzu waved her hand. "I'll take what you have now, Bakura-kun. If this goes on much longer I'm going to confiscate this castle and whatever else in collateral that you own, including those 'cute' trinkets of yours. I can give you a few more months' continuation for now, but that's a secret between friends, okay? Call me if you get the money, Bakura-kun."

She hugged him quickly with one arm, snatched up the money pouch that lay on the counter, and vanished in a flurry of predictably pink pixels.

"Oh, Mana," said Bakura, flopping dramatically onto his back with one hand tossed limply over his forehead, "I've lost all strength from the landlady's monstrous news. I'm paralyzed with exhaustion, poppet. You'll have to open club without me. I. . .oh, I. . .I never even. . .got to see. . .the ocean. . ."

"Master Bakura, you live in a port city," said Mana, desperately trying to frown and failing miserably.

"Ah, you're right," said Bakura, sitting upright and swinging his legs off the countertop. He kissed his apprentice gratefully but with his usual swift carelessness. "Thank you, Mana, for your consistent service as a voice of reason, and for abandoning your studies to shoulder the responsibility of watching over ANKH—while your master goes off on another of his deranged larks. You're an absolute doll," he added breathlessly, not looking back as he disappeared through the doorway and into the darkening city beyond.

"Wh-where are you going?" Her voice was strained and weak; she cleared her throat nervously. _He kissed me. . ._

"Damp and drafty it may be, but I _like _this castle. We need to get the money somehow," he called over his shoulder. "Legally or illegally." Mana could hear his ghostly laughter hanging in the air after him as his form dimmed and faded away altogether.

"Bloody arse." She sighed, wiped her mouth self-consciously, and exited the kitchen, following the increasing volume of music and laughter.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Amano was humming as he clipped two shining pieces of stone to Ryou's earlobes. The mineral was dark green and liquid like volcanic glass, each gold-etched section curved to fit the shape of Ryou's ear. "_Atarashii toki ga. . ._hm, not pierced?" the other soul tutted, reaching for something just beyond Ryou's line of sight. "Oh well. Grit your teeth and bear it, Ryou_-_kun. _Hajime no doshiteru. . ._"

"What—_nngh_!" Ryou felt a needle of ice flash through both ears at once, and then a slow trickle of white-hot fire from the newly-inflicted wounds. "Amano-kun. . .?"

The other soul smiled at him. "The holes'll close up by themselves in a few weeks if you don't wear anything in them. But tonight, at least, you're going to need pierced ears. _Daijoubu_," he added, as Ryou squeezed each ear gingerly, "they've gone numb already. You're not going to feel it until you take those out. And there's no permanent damage, really."

Ryou returned the smile tentatively. "Anou. . .thanks, I suppose."

"Amano, shut up for a sec and lemme see!" Jin-Ho had returned with an obscene amount of baubles, gauzy scarves, and otherwise relatively shiny things piled in her arms. "Ooh," she said, exhaling. "Amano did a nice job with that eyeliner of mine. You look just about ready to be eaten, kid."

_. . .Eaten?_

Normally, Ryou would have shrugged off a comment like that. But after his first few brushes with the demonic underworld, he wasn't so sure if Jin-Ho actually _meant_ what she'd said.

"Ahahaha._ Baka, _she means figuratively, of course," Amano interrupted reassuringly, seeing the brief look of horror that had flitted across Ryou's face. "No one's really that hungry downstairs. They come here for the booze, mostly. They won't bother you if you try not to stand out. _Na_?"

"Aa," said Ryou nervously.

"I don't know," said Jin-Ho, fiddling around with the clasp of a heavy gold chain. "It's going to be hard for him to blend into the background like this. You like what you see, Ryou?" And she pulled the curtain away from the wall-length mirror.

_Oh._

His eyes were rimmed evenly with heavy strokes of green, lifted at the corners to accent the mildly Asian slant they took. Amano had done something interesting with the black; Ryou's face was drawn like a calligraphy painting, brush strokes filled with rough swatches of color—a patch of red on his lips, slice of pink on his cheek, bluish-white for his forehead. Like drying ink, the black slid around his eyes too, and the green faded just before they touched.

The magic ended at his neck. He could barely see the uniform beneath all the gold.

Jin-Ho was already removing some of the gold from his neck and arms. "It's too much," she said decisively, patting his shoulder. "We can't have you so layered with gold that you can't move."

"Where did you get all this?" Ryou asked, tilting his head so that Jin-Ho could remove the necklaces. He fingered one of the bangles. "It must have cost a king's ransom."

Amano smiled. "From Master Bakura, of course."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Jounouchi glared with enough hate to make the blindfold sizzle and the ropes around his wrists melt away. He was aiming to glare at the blue-eyed demon, but due to the blindfold, was actually glaring at a gutter across the street. It was still night, although the blackness had lifted enough that Jounouchi could make out dim shapes through the cloth over his eyes. He mistook the nearest streetlamp as the demon this time, and redirected his glower at the post. He then yawned hugely, which ruined the entire affect of the expression should it have been noticed by his captor.

If Kaiba had seen the holes being burnt into the gutter by the human's deadly eyes, he said nothing.

"Stop dragging your feet," said the demon.

The treads on his sneakers were already burned away, but Jou made one final stubborn attempt to plant his feet on the ground. The demon muttered under his breath, then said: "Shoes off. Before I do it for you." To emphasize his statement, he snapped his fingers and Jounouchi's left shoe promptly caught fire.

"Holy Mother of—fuck you!" Jou snarled, kicking off both shoes hastily. He hopped about blindly, swearing with each jump, until his smoldering left sock came in contact with a puddle. "Fucking—crazy—goddamned—demon fucker—"

Kaiba waited for his cavorting to stop, then caught the boy's bound wrists and began guiding him again with his index finger looped through the ropes. "Are you quite done?" asked the demon coolly, his tone icily condescending. "There is a great deal left for us to accomplish, mutt, and not much time for your histrionics."

To that, Jounouchi replied with a torrent of Japanese and English curse words (the English having been learned from various American rap pieces.) He hadn't exactly finished when the demon pressed his cold hand up against Jou's mouth and used his own body to push the boy into the wall. "_Mmf!_" said Jou furiously as he squirmed, trying to bite the offending limb. He quieted, however, went Kaiba's fist went into his hair and pulled his head back, forcing his chin up. The demon's mouth was at Jou's ear, his breath quick and warm against the nape of Jou's neck. _Jesus Christ on a fucking crutch_, Jou fretted silently_, that feels kinda—kinda—_the demon turned his head, leaned closer—Jou gasped under the demon's hand and screwed his eyes shut—

—and became aware of the clanging of weapons, of soft, swishing noises—noises that belonged to feathered wings. . .

_That didn't. . .sound. . .human._

"Brilliant; you noticed," said Kaiba dryly, stepping away and straightening his coat with dignity. "That, my dear mutt, is why we have cooperate to get to the underworld _fast_ and _quietly_."

"Who—what are they?" Jou suddenly felt more than naked in his pajamas and he hunched his shoulders to ward off the cold.

"Angel search party," said the demon brusquely. "An angelic native of vast importance has recently gone missing, and I am apparently the first on their list of suspects. I want Shaitan's throne; I'll do anything to get it—they're assuming that 'anything' includes kidnapping one of their own as leverage over the angelic upperworld. Entering the underworld in such large numbers would be an open declaration of war, so once we're down there, I'll be safe."

_Once _we're_ down there. . ._he'll_ be safe?! What about me!_

Jou's eyebrows wrinkled under the blindfold. "How are we getting down there, anyway?" he demanded sullenly.

He could sense the demon's frown. "I had intended to use a portal," said Kaiba, "but the appearance of the search party means that they'll be guarding those entryways. Time to do something original."

"That being?" Jounouchi blinked as the blindfold was removed. It was nearly light; the sky was pinking with faint hints of gold in the east. Rush-hour traffic was barely an hour away, and there were already cars on the road. The demon took Jou's hands and wrapped them around his own, as though they were out for an extremely early walk. _A three a.m. walk with a psychotic anal retentive grim-reaping bastard! _From a distance, no one would be able to see the magically-conjured rope anyway.

"We're going to pay the subway station a visit. Steal a train, break the mundane barrier. That sort of thing."

"_Whaaaaat?!_"

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

It was exactly four minutes after midnight when Jin-Ho and Amano snuck Ryou down the winding staircase and into the kitchen. In the adjacent room, ANKH was running smoothly; the music was intense and showed no sign of faltering or stopping, the lights flashing in time with the drum beat and reflecting on the kitchen tiles. The other souls sat him at one of the tables and began briefing him on what to do if he was approached—the main message was _'Run.'_

"What do you do again?" prompted Amano.

" 'I back away slowly and vanish into the crowd,' " recited Ryou dutifully, " 'and I don't stop walking until I'm on the opposite side of the room.' "

Jin-Ho grinned at him. "Good," she said. "Most of the patrons know not to cause a riot in Master Bakura's ANKH, but there are a few drunks and newbies that either forget or don't know the rules. If they get violent, you yell for Mana and she'll take care of you; don't worry what Bakura will say later. He'll be a lot more pissed off if you get damaged, trust me."

_. . .damaged?_

"_Na,_ Ryou-kun. Really all you should do is avoid eye contact," said Amano suddenly. "Since your uniform _is_ white, they'll think you're on a shift and won't bother you too much. If you don't look at anyone and don't draw too much attention to yourself, you should be fine. The minute you make eye contact," he warned, "then they're going to assume you want to start something, which you _don't_."

"I really don't. . ." Ryou frowned and rubbed at the back of his neck. His face was heating, though he knew the blush would be hard to see under the make-up. "I really don't plan on staying but for a few minutes. . ."

Jin-Ho giggled. "You'll get swept up pretty fast."

"I have to agree there," Amano concurred. Margot and Dejaah swept by and up the stairs without a second glance at Ryou. Both girls were flushed, pulling gold from their throats and arms as they went up, speaking excitedly to each other. Amano smiled and nodded in their direction, continuing, "ANKH is ANKH and that by itself guarantees an interesting evening." He looked Ryou over one last time. "We're going to take our shifts now. Remember what we told you, _na_, Ryou-kun?"

"Have fun!" said Jin-Ho, just before the pulsating crowd hid her from sight. "We'll check on you later!"

Then she and Amano were gone, swallowed in a blinding sweep of blue light, and Ryou was standing in the threshold between the darkened kitchen and the all-enveloping beat of moving bodies and screaming guitars. _Well. . .it can't hurt, I suppose. _He took a deep breath and stepped forward into the abyss.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

It was as though the café of that morning had happened in another life. The instant Ryou entered the room he was lost, adrift in a sea of bodies that rippled around him, buffeting him in waves. The room was dark but for the oily globules of light that were suspended in the air, which would change shape and glow an array of colors intermittently. It took Ryou a moment to notice that the lights were changing in time with the music, which had gone from satanic to nonsensical.

_"The cityscape is moss green—a battered soul and crumbling taxi—you're beautiful—"_

It was an entirely different crowd from the early-morning patrons; rough and rowdy, these demons were the ultimate party animals. They danced as though they meant to reduce the castle around them to ruin by morning, their only weapon in that destruction the never-ending movement of their feet.

The dancers all appeared young, but as Ryou had yet to see an _old_ demon, he figured youthful, smooth faces were standard in the underworld. The demons that were on the dance-floor moved in such a chaotic manner that it couldn't help but seem coordinated—one giant synchronized jumble of arms and legs and the occasional horn. Hands reached up to snatch at the grease-lights and came away splattered with color that faded in seconds; demons danced alone, together, in threes—at the moment, there was a group of eight doing some odd positioning in the center of the floor. Ryou kept at the edge of the fray, afraid he would be jostled into the crowd and seized by the violent current of the demon-whirlpool.

He wasn't alone. In all the corners there were demons lounging against the walls, sipping drinks and shouting to each other to be heard over the music and laughter. Sometimes dancers would fight their way out of the mass and collapse by the bar, whereupon Sara, perched daintily in her child-sized white uniform, would mix their drinks as daintily as she had been sitting.

"Hey," said someone, tapping him hesitantly on the shoulder, as if they were afraid to touch him. "Not dancing tonight, Mister Bakura?"

The speaker was a female demon who looked to be in her early twenties. Her voice was rather coarse and cracked a bit as she talked. Though she was wearing a fiery scarlet skirt of indecent length and the bright crimson lipstick of a floozy, she had a soft, pleasantly refined air about her. She smiled apprehensively down at him—she was a few centimeters taller—and wet those impossibly red lips nervously. "You're really covered up tonight," she added uncertainly. "More-so than usual. Are. . .are you cold?"

The initial confusion Ryou had at being identified by name was slipping away. _She thinks I'm Bakura,_ he realized. He was tempted to meow and go along with the deception, but his conscience got the better of him.

He smiled back; she seemed surprised by it and took a step back. "I'm not Bakura," Ryou said as loudly as he could, barely able to hear his own voice. "I'm Ryou—I'm new here. And you are. . .?" He left a questioning pause in place, waiting for her to supply her name.

She took this in stride. "Sorcha, fifth caste," she said, with a little more enthusiasm. She held out her hand expectantly and then retracted it again when she realized he wasn't sure what to do with it. "It's. . ." she swallowed agitatedly. "It's only my sixth time here. . .but Mister Bakura does talk to me sometimes."

"Well," Ryou smiled again, "it's my first time here."

She laughed at this. "Yes," she admitted, "it was awful the first time. My friends insisted I come with them. I was so sure we were going to get killed on the way here—you know how Dahlia is these days. But Mister Bakura was really very sweet to me. I started to come more often, to see him."

Ryou felt an unexpected twinge at hearing her confession, but shrugged it off. "Do you dance?"

"Is that an invitation?" she said teasingly, then blushed. "Sorry. I didn't realize how that sounded. Yes, I dance sometimes—but not tonight. It's wild tonight. They've got Gacked here right now—but Motrin is also going to make an appearance sometime later, I heard from someone."

"Gacked," said Ryou slowly. It sounded vaguely familiar.

"Sorcha!" Another demoness had rushed up to them, emerging sweat-soaked from the dance-floor. "There you are. You've got to come with me to the bar, that soul with the gold highlights is serving now—come on!" She was shorter and dressed entirely in neon green that came off rather yellow when the black lights illuminated it. Her headband was purple and sported two large cat ears. "Sorcha, let's go!"

Sorcha laughed. "This is Bronwyn," she told Ryou, seeming a great deal more relaxed now. "She's the one who dragged me here in the first place."

"Sorcha!" Bronwyn tugged impatiently at her friend's arm, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

"Alright, alright. It's been nice talking, Ryou. Maybe we'll bump into each other again on the street sometime." She held out her hand again and this time Ryou shook it, grinning up at her. She turned to go, paused, and then, quite red in the face, she blurted, "If you see Mister Bakura, please do tell him that his silly girl said hello. 'Bye, Ryou—hey! _Wynny, calm down_—"

"Okay," Ryou promised halfheartedly to her retreating figure, "I will."

"That soul at the bar is so _cute_!" Bronwyn was squealing as she led Sorcha off. The two ploughed into the center of the vortex, cutting directly across it to reach the bar where Amano was now serving drinks. Ryou tilted his head back and exhaled into the still smoke-free air, his eyes fixed on the lights. He felt gawky and awkward, standing with too-long teenage limbs against the background of graceful, limber demons.

He wasn't sure what he felt about Sorcha. She was sweet, though her sense in dress could probably use a few changes here and there; more specifically, a few more centimeters of cloth. Her easy admission of knowing Bakura 'that way' hadn't surprised him at all, so what was it that he felt? Lingering disappointment clouded his vision and made his chest constrict.

_'Tell him that his silly girl said hello.' His silly girl. His. . .girl._

"What the hell," Ryou said aloud, frowning to himself. "He kisses everyone anyway. It's not like I'm special or. . ." His words were caught up by the music and spirited away from his lips before he could finish the thought.

_"Don't say goodbye; you don't need another word. You can see another world—another world—another world—!"_

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Jin-Ho surprised him twice by appearing near his elbow. She held out a shot glass of some clear stuff—either water or vodka; Ryou was assuming the latter—and shook her head when he gave her a questioning look. "Shh!" she said, putting a finger to her lips. Her lipstick was blotchier now, beginning to stick to the creases of her mouth. "Just drink it quick and give me the glass; I'm not supposed to be giving this stuff away for free, you know."

Ryou gulped it down and then spat it up again when it burned the roof of his mouth. _Definitely vodka_. "Jin-Ho!" he hissed, somewhat scandalized.

She grinned at him. "Never had a drink before, I see. Demons can hold their drinks, so demonic alcohol is always a bit stronger—it gets to 'em quicker. Like it at all, Ryou?"

He coughed through the fumes flooding his throat. "A _bit_ stronger?" Ryou croaked, trying to conceal his hacking from the girl, whose confident air gave him the impression that she could probably drink several shots at a go. "I think a shot of it would kill me!" His voice was nasally and thick with a sudden flood of mucus; he swallowed again. The itchy, burning feeling was lessening.

_Strawberry._ It lingered on his tongue as the last of the burn evaporated, light and sweet.

"_Sugoi_," he said, when he could speak again. He meant both ends of the word quite sincerely, the good connotation and the bad. The fumes had been pleasant in a disturbing way, but the mildly strawberry aftertaste more than made up for the discomfort.

Jin-Ho was already gone. He saw her a few minutes later, ducking and weaving through the dancers, who had neither stopped nor slowed, though the actual demons doing the dancing had changed. It was getting to be rather late now—so late it was early—time for the "hardcore" patrons to make their appearance. All souls were on duty now for crowd control, including several Ryou had yet to meet. Mana was on the prowl as well; to avoid her, Ryou had to slide around the edges of the room, keeping discreetly behind the demons who were taking a break from the dancing.

_Sorcha_, he thought, and sighed. _I suppose Bakura meets a lot of demonic girls through his club. . .and she seems utterly taken with him. And who wouldn't be?_ added the more traitorous part of his mind (back for a last word), _after all, he _is_ absolutely gorgeous._

_He's sickly looking. Pale and almost emaciated and red-eyed like one of those white rabbits—_

_—oh, bloody hell. If beauty is a disease, then he's terminally pretty._

Teeth latched onto his earlobe; long fingers threaded through his hair and held him immobile. "My, my," was the soft, contented purr. "Aren't you the wallflower."

_'Speak of the devil and he shall appear.'_

It was Bakura.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

A/N: _The first cliffhanger of Faust! I laugh evilly as you all throw things at me. So, I suppose the question on everyone's mind is how Bakura is going to react to Ryou disobeying his orders. Well, you're just going to have to wait for the next chapter to find that out, I'm afraid. If it rains ice tomorrow, I'll get to stay home and work on Faust5, but you never know. I apologize for the long wait, but several things got in the way of it (including yet another computer crash.) Tell those hackers to leave me alone! I have to write fanfiction._

_(giggle)_

_There wasn't _anything_ new to clarify in this chapter, really. I do want to add a bit about the timelines and the bands, though._

Languages: Old demonic is Arabic. New demonic is Japanese-ish. Angelic is Mandarin and its various dialects.

Sugoroku's dubbed name is Solomon, methinks. I don't want to say anymore on that first section of Faust4 because it will give more answers away than I want to reveal at this point of the story. You're quite welcome to guess, of course. Bakura's other souls are not really an essential part of the story; they're there to provide support to the points that are made. So I'm doing my best to make them seem at least 3D with the minimal "screen time" that they get in this story, but I apologize if everyone comes off as 2D! I'm trying, I really am.

Bands! The first band is Luna Sea, formerly Lunacy. I think Sugizo of the "fuck-me-now" boots gave that away, heehee. The second band (or vocalist, I should say) mentioned is Gacked, a play off Gackt. And finally, Motrin is a parody of the Jrock band Penicillin. (sweatdrop) Both are antibiotics, I think.

Music used: Luna Sea's Time Has Come (Amano was humming it), and Gackt's Another World.

Bakura is a playboy. I think you might have noticed that already from all that he's done—or all the people he's kissed, randomly bitten, supposedly has a history with. . .et cetera, et cetera.

_A/N: Any other questions about what was covered this chapter, feel free to email or review, and I'll make sure I get back to you on them. _

**To all Reviewers: **Reviewer response rocks my socks! Thank you, minna-san!

Anime-Crazed: Haha, thanks! Lots more kisses this chapter. Things are definitely heating up next chapter, emotionally and physically. (nod nod)

Hyacinthus: I've decided to be unrealistic. I don't know how much more unrealistic Faust could get anyway, it's already completely AU and _totally_ f-ed up! Heehee. Thanks!

Maruken: Ye gods, how I love Jrock. It is delicious. It is my nitrogen. (Reviews are my oxygen.) Kaiba isn't aiming to save Ryou, really—just get back to the underworld. Azor is an explosive material. Like ammonium nitrate, large trucks of it out in the open are targets for attacks. I guess if no one's noticed it yet, but the situation in Iraq is kinda what I've made Dahlia into. A warzone where everything is unstable and people blow each other up, but the country is struggling to get back on its feet despite the interference. Jou's little past shall be explained later, as will the basis for the war. (tries to look mysterious)

Chelley Angel: Lol, I totally agree with you about Chinese. My sister and I are starting to learn some Cantonese. . .it's pretty weird. We were raised on solid Mandarin. . .I can understand a bit of Hokkien (Fuchin?) but not speak it/spell it. . .

Inverse-chan: Yay, you liked it. Thanks!

Saffron-Starlight: Haha, I'll make sure to keep updating. (grin)

Hieirulesall: I feel kinda sorry for Pegsy. I only hate him when he takes Kaiba's soul, because no one should be allowed to do that. (hits Pegsy-chan)

Hales731: Ryou may be dead in the mundane world, but in the demonic world, his soul is eternal—and bound to Bakura forever. So that's the symbolism behind the ankh, I suppose; of course it'll get deeper later, once I figure it out myself. . .(sweatdrop) Wow, I'm impressed. You caught the Kisara reference! Yes, it does have something to do with the BEWD. . .you deserve cookies for that or something. Hey, I just made some last night. Do you mind chocolate-chip cookies? (gives basket of said cookies)

Sylistop Yumeorb: I wouldn't say 'no more' meowing. . .just less. Bakura is going to have to be a _little_ serious sometimes. . .

Pork Steak the Grande: (waves back) No, it was actually rather long. I think it's because the scenes were all shorter and moved a lot faster, had a lot of action.

DreamingChild: Better late than never. . .(Sorry, it's late and clichéd sayings are running amok over here.) Thanks for reviewing. And when are you going to update The Truth Hurts? We're all waiting for it!

DarkShadowFlame: Bakura is a whole bunch of contradictions put together. You probably noticed in this chapter how he tells Anzu he has no money, but has bought all his souls as well as jewelry for them. Aww, thank you! (blush)

Ragna01: Heehee. . .thanks. It's nice to be loved.

It'sHardToBelieve: I shall! Thanks for reviewing!

Mercedes no Inuarai: Yes, I loved Yami like that. It was delicious. Of course now all my friends think I'm a sadist. . .(sweatdrop) Ack! I'm afraid I can't answer any of your questions yet, but you know that Yami and Yuugi escaped. They're snogging on the way to Arachne!

Yami hitokiri: We-ell, the JouKai might be back to stay. For good this time. I think so, yes.

Death's Little Sister: Yay! That's _Captain_ Jack Sparrow to you, mate! (sways around drunkenly)

daydreamer: (smile) Thank you!

Yamori: I like your new name. Does it have a meaning behind it? (and if you've already told me, I'm sorry. . .like I said earlier, it is pretty late over here.)

x morbid decay poet x: Heehee, that's good. I aim to always exceed expectations. Hopefully you find the next chapters okay as well. (grin)

Bourei no Hikari: Hey. . .you changed your name between now and last week. Cool. I'll make Bakura meow more often, then. (pokes Bakura)

_DBBB-chan: (meows reluctantly after much poking)_

John S.: Hey! Dunno if you checked in for chapter four, but here it is. Thanks for reading chapters 1-3, you really didn't have to but it was very cool of you to do it anyway! Aiya, it's so late that I'm starting to babble. Hope you liked Faust4 as well. See you in trig class!

_Next chapter: _

_Bakura's reaction brings about some changes. Marikku devises a plan, and all hell breaks loose. (Literally.) Jounouchi and Kaiba have some "unusual" chemistry, don't they? Hahaha. Next time, in Faust5!_

_Once again, thank you, minna-san!_

_ryuujitsu & co._

_PS: The next update looks to be about end-february, beginning-march. The reason for this later-than-usual update is one, my computer is acting strangely still; and two, science fair is due in this jan-feb block. Thanks for being so patient!_


	5. lemonèd i scream

FAUST

yuugiou fanfiction

ryuujitsu co.

chapter five: lemonèd i scream

Disclaimer: Saying Yuugiou belongs to us is like saying my socks are secretly emigrating to Mexico (or Canada, given the political situation here in the 'States), one by one so as not to be noticed. Hm. . .are they?

A/N: _Ugh, so busy. Lots of schoolwork. Luckily the Lehigh prof has agreed to meet with my partner/me for our scifair equations, so maybe the situation is salvageable? I certainly hope so. The winter months are always tough because everyone's stressed out. Once we level out into spring-time, things will be better, and updates hopefully faster. Thanks again for being so patient with me._

_I read chapter four over and realized it was mostly a filler. I mean, ok, a few key parts were slipped in here and there (and doubtless I will find a way in the near future to make that chapter seem utterly relevant), but it was mostly bullshit to fill up the pages. Of course, if everything I wrote were that fast-paced, then the story would have finished in days. And wouldn't that be boring?_

_I was mean last chapter. I'm sorry, guys! But cliffhangers are so fun. For me, anyway, because I know what's going to happen while the rest of you sweat over it. . .hahaha. (points and laughs) (is stoned to death)_

_Aiya! Don't kill me yet. . .if you kill me now you'll never find out what happens! _

_Dedicated to Itooshi-chan!_

ITFTC:

"lemon lemon lemon lemonèd i scream, yea"

hide spread beaver

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

The silver fiend looked at Ryou for a long moment, then turned abruptly and headed for the vacant kitchen—but not before hooking a finger securely around the ankh pendant that hung around Ryou's neck and tugging once.

_Follow_, the red eyes said. Ryou took a deep breath and obeyed.

The demon did not slow his pace until they were at the darkened stairwell, his free hand flickering at the kitchen door. It clicked neatly shut moments later with an intense aura-flare that almost threw Ryou off his feet. In the muffled silence that followed the closing of the door, Ryou could hear the blood pounding in his ears.

Bakura's smile was almost—_almost_—confused. "Soul-boy," he said faintly—and pounced.

The first kiss was long and empty and burned white-hot against Ryou's mouth, numbing his lips. The air that hit the blisters when Bakura pulled away felt like fire, but as Ryou began to gasp, the demon ducked his head down and stole another kiss. Ryou had never kissed anyone before, much less a demon, so he clutched at Bakura's arms and otherwise stood still. His mouth was throbbing with a dull sort of ache—the kisses were getting faster and messier and the alternating flashes of fire and ice had left him unable to distinguish between hot and cold.

Bakura made a soft sound of appreciation as he drew away, his eyes dreamy. "Don't stand so stiffly," he said, laughing as Ryou's arms slowly came up around him. "You're just like Mana."

Ryou exhaled, burying his red face in Bakura's shoulder. He could hear a heart beating—beating _fast_—and wasn't sure whose it was. _He's kissed Mana?_

Bakura chuckled and fingered one of the stones in Ryou's ears. "Meow. Amano did a good job. It's a new look for you, soul-boy. I'm not sure I like it." He spoke the short sentences deliberately and bit off the end of each word, his fingertips tracing the deft brush strokes that Amano had used on Ryou's face. They came away smudged with black. "Make sure you wash it off, merrrow."

"Aa. . .un," said Ryou meekly, flushing. "Um. . ."

"Not now," said Bakura, catching his hand. The demon paused, turning his back to Ryou before continuing airily: "I thought I'd given specific instructions. You are not under any circumstances to be on a club shift—isn't that right, soul-boy?"

Ryou swallowed. "Yes. . ."

Bakura's shoulders sagged and he sighed noisily, mopping at his forehead dramatically. "I see. It can't be helped now. Merrrrow, soul-boy. Go upstairs and change. Sara is off-shift; talk to her when you're done." His voice softened, became deadly, and as he pivoted back to face Ryou his eyes were near-black. "Don't forget—_I own you_. If I see you down here again tonight, I won't be so lenient. Do we have an understanding?"

"Yes," said Ryou miserably, and squeaked as Bakura took hold of his shoulders and kissed him again. Ryou's arms came up around the demon automatically, and that was when Bakura stepped back.

The eyes sparkled red at him. "Shaitan below, you're clingy," Bakura murmured. He straightened. "Where's Mana?" Ryou didn't trust himself to speak, and Bakura didn't wait for a reply. "Meow," he said. "I need to see her. You're cute," he added absently, almost as an afterthought, and switched out, leaving a trail of pixels behind.

Ryou reached up and touched his mouth gingerly. One of the blisters was bleeding.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

"Mana."

The demoness closed her book with a snap and shoved it behind her hastily, looking up. "Master Bakura! I was wondering if you'd be out all night again." She stood and faced him, carefully pushing the book out of sight with her toe and maneuvering her body to block another stack of heavy tomes. "I was just about to turn in, actually—oh, you're bleeding." She said it flatly, her expression one of dull shock and mild reproach, like one would say 'Oh, you're back.'

The blood had formed a thick black stain on his cloak and smattered his hair with coagulating maroon.

"Hm?" He blinked owlishly at her. "Meow, yes. I wanted you to fix. . ." he trailed off, mouth dropping open, red eyes widening the tiniest of fractions. His lips were pink and swollen and very thoroughly kissed.

She frowned up at him, her features stern. "Have you been molesting the lower castes again?"

Bakura ignored her. He was poking tentatively at his side, startled bewilderment seeping into his face. "It stopped," he said at length, his voice soft. "The bleeding stopped." He shrugged off the cloak and folded it, arranging it neatly across the chair where Mana was sitting. "I thought you might have to fix it again. . .but. . ."

Mana sighed. "Keep poking it like that and I might have to 'fix it' after all. Just what were you doing, anyway?" she chided, as he found a comfortable position on the desk and pulled his inner robe open to reveal the wound—which had indeed closed. She dug around in the drawers for bandages. "You shouldn't be so careless. Take me with you next time if you need someone to watch your back, okay, Master Bakura? Don't ruin that pretty face of yours."

"And to answer your question," he said, lifting his arms so she could wrap the linen strip around his waist, "no, I have _not_ been molesting the lower castes."

"Master Bakura," said Mana, tightening the bandage a little more than was necessary. "I'm being entirely serious. You may be extremely powerful, but your physical condition at the moment is less than perfect—health especially. I'm worried about you."

"Et tu, Mana?" said Bakura with a scowl. "I get enough of that from Isis." He was playing with her hair as she tied the bandages, curling ringlets around his fingers. "Says I'm too thin. Painfully thin, quote unquote." He scoffed. "I am not emaciated, I'll have you know. I am health personified. In fact, I even have _muscles_. Hm-m-m-m. . .meow. . ."

"You _are_ painfully thin," Mana mumbled. She took one end of the bandage between her teeth and pulled hard, reveling in Bakura's surprised gasp as she knotted the bandage deftly and snipped the loose ends with her fingernail.

Bakura was humming low in his throat. "Mm. . .thrice dev'lish is. . ."

"Ah," said Mana blankly. "It reopened already." There was a pinpoint of blood beginning to form on the bandage; it blossomed into wet oblong blotch. She pressed her hand to the wound and performed a black magic seal. First level and used, normally (or by dullards with no imagination), to block basic spells, the seal would effectively act as a magical clot for a few hours, until the blood had thickened enough to form a clot of its own. "I told you not to prod at it like that, Master Bakura."

Bakura crossed his legs, unfolded them, crossed them once more, then asked coquettishly, "Do you think it will scar, Mana?"

There were half-moons of purple crinkled under her eyes. She laughed wearily and removed her hand from his side, feeling her nerves burning with the aftershock that was common to black magic use. "If I may say so—you're so very shallow, sir."

His eyes glittered brown in the light. "Meow."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Sara found him lost in an unfamiliar passage She seemed to be sympathetic. It was difficult to tell from the opaque faerie eyes and vacant childish face, but as she reached out with her small hand to take his index finger, she gave the appendage a comforting squeeze. "Master Bakura found you," she said softly. Her tone was final.

Ryou felt his face heating.

She smiled faintly and didn't speak again, but led him in silence through a veritable maze of corridors and winding staircases that he could have sworn weren't there the day before, her hand curved securely around his finger. Ryou did his best to keep up with her swift, gliding movements, staring at previously unseen parts of the castle with awe. The walls were for the most part bare, devoid of the elaborate tapestries and gilded portraits that one would expect of such citadels.

Sara looked as though she sensed his questions, but made no answer to them. Instead, she tugged on his finger and said brusquely, "Faster."

"Where are we going?" ventured Ryou tentatively, forcing his legs to match the faerie's speed. That question too, went unanswered. They rounded another corner and seemed to be picking up speed when Sara stopped without warning; Ryou crashed into her with a 'mmf!' of pained surprise as he wrenched his finger.

He watched, mystified as the floor in front of them appeared to vanish. _So Bakura has a bottomless pit in his castle too._

"Kami-sama," he breathed, ignoring the searing flash of pain that hit his tongue from merely _saying _the word. "Sara? What do you think you're doing, Sara!" She had walked him to the edge of the abyss and hesitated for a brief moment only to tighten her grip on his hand—she stepped forward into empty space, dragging Ryou after her—

_Kami-sama!_

He opened his mouth to yell and clamped it shut again in shock when he realized they were standing on something incredibly solid and cold, no different from the stone floor that they had been traversing moments earlier.

_Oh._

Sara's elegant mouth was twisted into something that could very well have been called a smirk. A very Bakura-esque smirk, in fact.

"Forward and left," she instructed, and sank through the floor.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

It was a full ten minutes later when Ryou, thoroughly shaken by the image of the child slowly vanishing through _solid stone_, arrived at the end of the long hall and found a single red door. It had been painted red and the paint was old, chipped and stained with age. Behind the cracked color, the door was a slim sheet of golden wood, translucent and glowing like burnished amber.

The door was shut, and Ryou was wary of touching it. The pale gleam of Sara's eyes still burned against his back.

There were tiny carvings set deep in the wood. Sloppily covered with the paint, they were barely perceptible in the darkness. Ryou ran his fingers over the miniscule hieroglyphs, shuddering as a rich tremor of raw power slid up his arm and into the very core of his being. _A seal? It's old magic—such old magic—_

He had seen his full of old horror movies, and was expecting the door to creak open on its own, but after another ten minutes of standing and waiting, Ryou swallowed his fears and nudged the door cautiously with his big toe. The hinges were well-oiled; the door eased open without noise or protest. The oppressive desert air that exploded out from within gave Ryou the impression that he was unearthing a tomb, unsealing the entrance of some perpetual burial chamber. He felt as though he was standing on the threshold of Tutankhamen's eternal resting place.

He sniffed. _Myrrh. _Beneath the smoky-sweet cologne and stale air lingered the spice and oil of another time.

The rest of the room was in shadow, illuminated every two or three minutes by the wide red sweep of a searchlight. This time, as Ryou stepped forward, the door shut of its own volition, closing off the cool castle air in a tight vacuum of arid warmth, off drowning him in darkness. He navigated guardedly around in the suffocating blackness, moving toward the red light of the open window and the cold air beyond it.

The window was a slit in the side of the wall, a gap in the stones perhaps twenty centimeters tall and roughly one meter long. Ryou had to raise himself to his toes to peer outside, his nose and mouth pressed against the wall.

He smiled when he saw the city lights, three shades of blue against the blue-black of the demonic sky. They reminded him of the Domino City that he watched outside his window, when it was two or three hours after midnight and he couldn't sleep. _Dad. . .I wonder if he's left Domino yet. Maybe he'll go back to England, or get lost in another dig somewhere in the Middle East._

The searchlight seared his eyes and he turned away, blinking into the smothering heat of the room. _Malik. . ._

The demon who had bought him—Pegasus—had seemed a bit on the odd side, but he had not been a drunkard like Keith, and Ryou doubted Pegasus would be one to abuse his expensive "toys." Malik had both the street instincts and exotic charms to survive, and he would survive, with or without Marikku. Although, Ryou reflected wistfully, for Malik, surviving without Marikku would be like giving up breathing—a death struggle.

The blood on his lower lip had dried now, the blister itself fading to nothing. Soul-skin apparently healed fast—or perhaps it was the work of the mysterious 'cross' around his neck. His old human life was falling away fast, curling far into the back of his mind—a husk to be forgotten.

Softly, in the pervading heat, Ryou felt his damaged mouth curving into an absurdly delighted smile. _Bakura kissed me. He put his arm around my waist and kissed me._

He exhaled and resolved not to cry anymore.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

The mirror was a half-polished disk of bronze, bright enough to be yellow and rubbed enough to reflect basic features. Malik blinked disbelievingly into the mirror's shining surface, reaching up to smooth his hair. "I could have _sworn_ I didn't have those spikes there," he sniffed. "Allah! This hard physical labor is disheveling my hair. I might even have split ends."

He scrubbed at his eyes next, which were heavily rimmed with black and purple. The shadows extended far past his eyelids onto his cheekbones, and, when they refused to rub away, swore violently at the ceiling.

"Pegasus, you fag—this is all your fault!"

_Habibi._ The voice was dry and raspy and sounded like there was some heavy alcohol on the breath. _Habibi, there isn't anything wrong with your hair or your face. That's me that you're looking at, Malik._

"Allah, Allah, why have you forsaken me?" Malik was on the verge of tearing at his hair. "Alright, okay, so maybe there's that little issue that I sold my soul to the devil, but hey! That doesn't mean anything, there's no need for me to grow old or crazy so fast, I mean, I'm not going to change anymore anyway so that's a good deal and—"

_Malik!_

Malik's eyes widened. "Ma. . .rikku? Marikku?" He squinted at the mirror. "Then I'm not getting old?"

_It's me. It's me, Malik._

"Marikku? It _is_ you!" Malik dropped the mirror and let loose, brandishing his fist at the demon's visage. "Marikku! You Allah-forsaken crazy-ass bastard, I should break this mirror in two fucking pieces and never fucking speak to you again—it's all your damn fault, you cheap demonic fucker—couldn't even afford—sold my soul for you—" His voice was shaking as he neared the end of his rant; he stopped abruptly, the tears in his eyes threatening to spill over.

Marikku's eyes were tired and wet. _Shaitan, _please_, Malik,_ he said brokenly. Like a badly dubbed movie, his words did not match the movement of his mouth. _I'm sorry. I'm so sorry._

"Shut up!" Malik screamed at him, kicking the mirror into a dirty corner and drawing a muffled protest from the souls sleeping in the next room. "Don't tell me you're sorry! I know you're sorry! You'd better fucking be sorry—you bastard—you—you. . .Allah. Marikku, are you still there? O Allah. Marikku! Don't leave me. Marikku? _Marikku?_"

_I'm still here._

"Thank Allah." Malik sagged to his dusty floor pallet and took the mirror in both hands, wiping the dust from its face. His eyes were leaking a bit now, but he managed a quavery smile and said with a vague effort at his usual cockiness:

"So, what's up?"

Marikku was quiet for a moment. His mouth crumpled. _I love you. A blessed lot. And I'm a little drunk. Strawberry vodka. Sorry. I'm so sorry. I can't bear the thought—the thought of not having you here. I tried to warn you—I sent Isis to look for you, to stop you—_

"It's done now, anyway," said Malik, his smile fading into a rather twitchy poker face. "Find someone new to screw, I suppose."

_Shaitan blessit, Malik!_ Marikku's voice seemed to resound from all corners of the room at once; Malik recoiled, his mouth dropping. _Don't fucking tell me to find someone new. You're _mine_, blessit. Forget the roc's feather and pretend it never happened. You're mine, you've always been mine, and it's going to stay that way. Blessit!_

Malik's lower lip jerked and he wasn't sure if he wanted to smile or cry. "It happened, you drunk bastard. What are you going to do about it?"

_Probably drink._

"Dammit, Marikku. Be serious."

_Heh. I was being entirely serious. _Marikku's eyes brightened. _But here's what we're going to do, so listen up, listen up, blondie._

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

"Are you even listening?" The purple bag of skin under Kaiba's left eye made several violent spasms.

Jou scowled, ducking under the arm of a salaryman and narrowly avoiding two giggling schoolgirls. "Of course I'm fucking listening. You were talking about trains. And black metal. I mean, black magic. And. Um. Stuff." His scowl melted into a rather sheepish grin.

Kaiba muttered something snake-like, a derisive whisper of words. The meaning slithered into Jou's ears and faded.

"_Humans_," the demon had hissed scornfully.

"Don't you 'human' me," snarled Jou, flexing his bound hands. "I'm not here of my own free will, you know. You're damned lucky I decided to cooperate at all. You got that, you demonic asshole?"

Kaiba stopped walking, and Jou crashed into him with a vehement expletive. The demon looked faintly surprised at Jou's words. "We're wasting time," he said quietly, though not as coldly as before. "I need to get onto a train before more of your foolish human kind appears. Hurry up, mutt!"

The station was beginning to fill with people trying to beat the morning rush, most of them in suits and ties, with a few students among them. Jou thought of Shizuka, who would be waking up soon to find him gone.

"You need to pay—"

"Two one-ways," Kaiba was saying smoothly, stuffing a wad of bills into a nearby pass machine. The passes were bright green with 'Domino Train Station' emblazoned neatly across the top in banana yellow. The demon pocketed one and handed Jounouchi the other, smirking widely down at him. "I trust you know how to use these?"

"Uh. . .yeah," said Jou, blinking as he took the pass.

Kaiba was watching the large station clock that hung overhead, and Jou followed the demon's gaze. Five-fifty-two.

"Before the sun rises," said the demon softly, and his left index finger twitched at the ceiling. Jou felt his jaw dropping as the second hand of the enormous clock slowed and then stopped altogether, and all around him people froze in their positions. The businessman beside him had seemingly paused in the process of fixing his tie; the young schoolgirls—Shizuka's age—were petrified mid-laugh, mid-gesture, their pleated skirts stiffened despite the breeze coming from the vents.

Jou whirled on the demon. "What the hell did you do!"

"Stopped time." Kaiba slipped a long finger through the rope around the boy's wrists, leading him towards the edge of the platform. "Only temporarily, of course. They'll wake up soon enough." The demon was glancing at the clock periodically, as though it was still moving, still telling time.

_What's he doing? If he's really stopped time, then the six o'clock train isn't going to come—is it?_

And then Jou felt the distant rumble of a train and saw the beginning of a ghostly headlight in the tunnel—not in vibration under his feet or brightness burning his eyes, but in his soul.

"All aboard," said Kaiba mockingly.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

The train was a milky imitation of a real subway, and Jou could see the other side of the station through its graying sides.

"What. . ."

Kaiba's skin had taken on a pallid shade; the demon's hands were trembling almost imperceptibly. "A summoning. The angels will have sensed it, so we must move quickly. Don't you even think of doing anything stupid, mutt. I need to make it back." And then he added, grimacing as though admitting it aloud had hurt him physically: "I can't hold it long. _Hurry up, bless it_!" he snapped, nudging Jou toward the train.

The doors of the train had slid open automatically. Jou clambered aboard as best as he could with bound hands. He turned to swear at the demon, but when he noticed the other's icy pallor, the thin line of sweat dripping from Kaiba's temple, he clamped his mouth shut and tried to move faster. The train was shuddering; beneath his hands the train's floor warped and vanished and reappeared.

Jou made his way down the aisle of the compartment, admiring the modern plastic seats. He had been expecting an old locomotive, maybe even coal-engined.

"_Down_!" hissed Kaiba, in that same odd snakelike voice that he had used earlier. Jou didn't bother arguing and dropped flat, knocking his shoulder painfully against the plastic seat.

The sudden whirr of angel wings had become apparent in the air. The fiery scimitar that swung over Jou's head singed the tips of his hair and impacted with the side of the train, leaving a raw flaming gash. Jou yelled aloud and threw himself backwards with the energy born of desperation, staring in horrified fascination at the winged creature before him.

It was not exactly as he had imagined. The angel was taller than a man with a head of soft yellow-white hair and glassy green eyes that stared him down impassively. The mouth was full-lipped under an aquiline nose; the impossibly pale eyebrows glittered like gold in the light, arched in two dainty curves. In one hand it hefted the flaming sword, but it did not seem as though it would swing again. Instead, it looked at Jou in puzzled fascination, cocking its head to one side as if finally realize he was not the demon. Jou caught sight of the wings, then—three fearsome pairs, spread behind the angel, each wing moving like a separate arm, sending—_something_—pulsing hotly through the air. The wings were hooked at the ends; when those ends touched, they made a metallic scissor-like noise.

"Jesus Christ!" yelped Jou, scrambling even further back on his elbows.

The wingbeats were becoming frenzied. "Thou shall not speak the Lord's name in vain," said the angel sweetly, pointing his fire-sword at the boy. When he spoke, it was in Japanese, but behind his words were an odd reverberation, as though he was talking from a long distance off.

Jou gulped at the sword. "Okay, okay, sorry."

"Chaer'bius Elite," said Kaiba, not turning to face the boy and the angel. "Your quarrel is with me. Leave the human."

The angel looked at the demon's back. "Where is the cherub?"

"Where is my brother?" Kaiba shot back. Beneath Jou's hands and knees, the train was growing more solid. Its engine was roaring; it jerked from side to side. Jou scrabbled about for a handhold. "Tell me, and perhaps then I'll tell you of your missing cherub."

"We do not know of your brother, demon."

Kaiba's shoulders moved upwards in a noncommittal shrug. "Well, then," he said reasonably, still not turning. Jou wondered if the demon could feel the heat of the smoldering sword. The boy's face felt burned from staring at it—maybe that was why the demon would not turn? "In that case, I don't know of your missing cherub either."

Jou saw the angel's eyes narrow. The sword lifted the barest of fractions, casting sparks and stray embers around the compartment of the train.

"Don't," said Jou.

"Do not meddle, human child," said the angel softly, patting his head. Jou felt a strange and foreign chill; the hand was like heavy glass. "I promise you that once we are done with him, we will free you. You may return to your home and your sister. All will be forgiven. You are a pure soul, are you not? Then all will be well." The angel raised his sword again and bent forward, preparing to charge.

"Okay, okay," said Jou, rushing to finish before the angel or Kaiba could interrupt him. "So I don't like the guy so much, but that's really no excuse for you to go and gut him like a fish—"

"Stand back," said the angel. "After this warning, I will give no more."

Kaiba felt him moving to intercept the angel—how, he wasn't sure. "What the _fuck_ are you doing, mutt!" snapped the demon, whirling in time to see as Jou slugged the angel hard in the jaw and knocked the creature to the floor, drawing his fist back for another blow. The angel's face was smooth and cold—porcelain. As Jou backhanded him again, thinking the angel might shatter if he hit him hard enough, the fiery sword flew down the aisle of the compartment. It had extinguished the moment it left the angel's hands.

_Shit,_ Jou was thinking as he grappled with the angel. _I just attacked an angel. A real fucking angel with a fucking sword of _fire_. Why the hell did I do that anyway? I just saved that demon guy's ass and attacked an angel—I'm going to die! Shit, shit, _shit

"Boy," said the angel distinctly, as Jou was doing his best to pummel him and not panic. "What _do_ you think you are doing?"

"Don't fucking touch him," gasped Jou, scarlet in the face. _And I said that because. . .? Oh, right, digging my grave deeper. Haha, way to go, Jounouchi Katsuya. Nice knowing you, world._

The angel's eyes had become green-white slits in his face; Jou drew back to hit him again and stopped, breathing hard, ears flushed. "You have sold your soul once, boy. Do not do it again. You will regret it. This will be my last warning to you, my very last."

"Yeah?" said Jou, figuring that he was going to die anyway and had nothing to lose. "Well, demons actually do what they promise unlike you and your pansy-ass kind. Pray to God and be saved, God and his angels will take care of you, fuck all that! Shizuka was going blind and where the hell were you guys, huh? I didn't believe in any of that shit until Kaiba showed up and we signed that stupid contract! And you know what, I don't care about my soul if my sister can see again, so shove your sanctimonious crap up your ass and _shut the fuck up_!"

He went to hit the angel again and was shoved onto his back so hard he was sure he'd broken a rib. The angel landed six lightning-fast hits to his chest and face and finished with a smart tap to Jou's stomach. Winded, Jou could not move. He lay coughing feebly on the floor, staring up at the angel.

The angel was standing over him with the sword once again blazing in his hand. "That was my last warning, boy. But our Lord is a good and merciful God. I will bring you to Him that He may save you."

"Ah. . ." Jou eyed the sword at his throat and felt his skin burning from the heat of the fire-sword.

The angel stiffened suddenly as what looked like two dice bounced from his robed shoulder onto the ground. They landed; snake-eyes. Jou exhaled shakily as the sword lifted a bit from where it had been menacing his neck, then gasped as another figure emerged from the corner of the compartment, gripping a dagger that looked as though it had been shaped from shadow. That dagger was pressing into the angel's back, and as the stranger spoke, his voice had a strange intonation to it, an accent of another time.

"You will kindly let them both go," said the man sibilantly. "You are alone in this station and the rest of your kind is above ground. Should I kill you now they will only be left to contemplate the mysterious circumstances of your misfortune."

Very slowly and stiffly, the angel pulled the sword away from Jou and dropped it, with a clatter, to the floor. The flames died at once, and Jou began breathing again. Then he remembered that a sword, flaming or not, was still a sword, and forgot to breathe once more. _Ah. . .ah, it hurts. . ._

The man laughed and poked the angel's back with the dagger playfully. "Good. Now go; you may come and deal with this demon another time. I have business with them. Go on, angel. Shoo, shoo!"

In a flurry of feathers, the angel was gone. He had left his sword.

"Alright, pup?" said the man, sitting down beside Jou as the boy pulled himself up, coughing. "An angelic beating is a pretty nasty thing to be on the receiving end of, but you held your own pretty nice until you pissed him off." He handed Jou the sword. "You'll probably need this later. Get that demon to teach you how to use it."

"Don't call me 'pup,'" said Jou exhaustedly. He brushed himself off and sat with the sword in his lap, examining it. It was sharp on both sides, the straight and the curved. Around the hilt there was written something in another language—whatever those angels spoke at home, he figured. There was a frog in his throat; he bent over and coughed again, and blood spattered on the train floor. When he lifted his shirt he could see the bruise that spanned his stomach in a solid yellow-purple blotch.

The man laughed. "Take it easy," he said. Jou finally looked up—_God_, his head hurt—and saw that the man was really no older than he was: a green-eyed teen with his hair in inky-black ringlets, falling from a high ponytail.

"You stupid mutt," said Kaiba. Jou blinked. _When'd he get here? Wasn't he holding the train together?_

The black-haired boy laughed again and bowed low. "In all my eight hundred years, I don't think I've ever met a _real demon_," he said, winking at Kaiba. "Your secrets are safe with me, of course. I'm Otogibanashi—Otogi for short. You are. . .?"

"Kaiba," said Kaiba shortly, not bothering to return the bow. "This dog beside me answers to Jounouchi Katsuya."

"Humans are cute," said Otogi. "Trying to take on an angel and all that." Jou coughed again and wiped at the dribble of blood at the corner of his mouth. His vision was going rather foggy and his stomach was hurting like a bitch. _Stay awake, stay awake, can't fall asleep on these guys, don't know what the hell they're going to do if I don't watch 'em—_

"So, vampire," said Kaiba. "Why have you decided to assist us?"

_Vampire? No. . .fucking way._ But then Otogi smiled again and two long canines slipped over the edges of his mouth, and Jou wondered blearily why he hadn't noticed them before. _Shit. . .it really hurts. . .maybe if I just. . ._

"Hey," Jou told Kaiba dimly, feeling sleepy. "You. . .owe me now, you demon. . .creep. . .No. . .no funny business. . ."

Then he closed his eyes.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

When Ryou woke, he found himself huddled by the window with his head in his arms. The cross around his neck had slipped under his side and made a reddened indent of itself in his skin. It was still dark out, and he wasn't sure what had woken him until he heard the noise again—a soft, muted hiccup. And then another, and another. Bristle-like fur scratched against his arm.

Ryou looked down and saw what he thought was a ball of fluff. Stained blue-white from the city lights, it was lying by his arm, shuddering and making the most peculiar hacking noises.

Whatever it was, after another moment, it raised its head and looked at him, still coughing. Its eyes were an eerie blue and cast their own light into the darkness, with a telltale slash of black pupil down the center of each. _Ah, a cat. _It was a great deal smaller than Medusa; indeed, it looked as though it might fit in the center of Ryou's hand and stay there quite comfortably. The ears were erect and sharp and the fur, though abundant, was stiff and wiry. _Like a cat of Bastet_, though Ryou, remembering the life-sized statue of Tutankhamen's cat that had been found in his tomb.

"You must be Lucifer," he said aloud.

The cat glanced at him again and mewled pathetically, still choking. It pawed at his arm and then looked beseechingly at the window. Bakura's gloating voice filtered through his mind, accompanied by that ever-present smirk. _'Lucifer's not so much dangerous as he is venom-fanged and vicious. . .'_

The cat gagged again and Ryou saw the beginnings of something extremely bright and round coming up its throat. "Shit!" he said weakly, remembering everything now. He grabbed the cat, ignoring its squeak of protest, and pressed its face to the open window. Lucifer trembled briefly and then emitted a single gasping sound. The impossibly large orb of lightning exploded out of the cat's mouth and into the air, crackling down in a single bolt that, thankfully, missed the castles and went straight to the pavement.

Ryou exhaled and let his shoulders sag. _That. . .was a little too close._

Giving him a grateful purr, the little cat sprang from his hands and curled up on the windowsill and promptly fell asleep.

Ryou was beginning to doze off again himself when the door of the room opened with a bang, letting in a gust of icy castle air. He started, looking drowsily around and catching sight of Bakura standing in the doorway, wild-haired and half-dressed with his patched cloak hanging off his shoulders. There was a clatter and the tinkle of breaking glass as the demon vaulted something in the center of the room—a bed, Ryou supposed—and strode to the window where the boy was sitting.

_He must have seen the lightning bolt. . .then again, I don't think anyone could have missed it unless they were dead drunk. . ._

"Lucibast," said Bakura breathlessly. He took the little cat from the windowsill and promptly pocketed it, then flopped down onto whatever it was that he had jumped over earlier. It made a sound similar to that of creaking springs.

_So it is a bed._

Bakura grinned, his teeth flashing whitely in the darkness. "Merrrow. Come here, soul-boy," he said, patting a spot beside him. "Let's have a nice long. . ._talk_."

Ryou got up, feeling as though his entire body had become his heartbeat—his ears, throat, feet, and fingertips were all one continuous nervous pulse. He groped his way through the blackened room, following Bakura's Cheshire cat smile, then tripped over the foot of the bed and sprawled across it.

The covers were rather squashy, he decided. They smelled like Bakura and fabric softener.

As he picked himself up, Bakura kissed his neck and tangled his fingers in his hair. Ryou squeaked and stiffened, grabbing two fistfuls of puffy blanket and squeezing for dear life. "What—what are you—"

"Meow," said Bakura pleasantly. "Thanks for finding Lucifer."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

The train was moving. Lying spread out on three consecutive plastic seats, Jou opened his eyes slowly, his head jarred repeatedly by the vibration of the moving vehicle. His stomach had gone numb and the pain in his head was lessening, but he was sure he'd broken a rib or two. The vampire—Otogibanashi or whatever he'd said his name was—was sitting across him and watching him; Kaiba was nowhere to be found.

"You okay now, kid?" said the vamp. "I didn't think an angel would hit so hard, but then again, he _was_ trying to kill you."

It hurt to talk. "Where the hell are we?"

"Somewhere in Purgatory," the vamp replied amiably, gesturing absently at the gray whisking by the window. Occasionally a shade or ghost would come close to the train and cling, moaning, to it, before being swept away again. Under the fluorescent light of the train the vampire seemed a great deal more bleached. "It's been a long time since I was last here," he added vaguely. "Not a lot of nice memories."

"What was your name again?" Jou winced. _ Better ask all my questions before I pass out again. . .I hope this bloodsucking creep isn't the talkative type._

"Otogibanashi," said the vampire, looking at a specter that had been clinging to the train for quite some time now. "Peek-a-boo!" he said, poking at the glass. The specter, rather surprised, lost its grip on the side of the train and fell away from the window howling. "Otogi, if you can't say all that in one breath. Haha, shades are such fun." He flicked a die at the window, managing to shock another ghost into releasing the sill. "Still, they're kind of nasty once they get a good grip on you. . .but we haven't hit the really bad territory yet; those guys have _claws_ and everything. . ."

Jou tried to inhale without jolting his ribcage. "Where. . ." he wheezed. "Where's Kaiba?"

"Driving, I assume," said Otogi, and dissolved into laughter as Jou gaped at him. "The demon conductor. Heh. It's kind of funny actually. Sorry," he said, wiping at the tears in his eyes and giggling. "I'm easily amused. That's a good thing, since I've been around so long—amazing I haven't managed to get bored yet. Humankind is so amusing. And this! Cross-world travel! Utterly amazing."

"Hold up," said Jou, as a thought occurred to him. "You been in Purgatory before? How come I haven't been here yet, if I've died once?"

Otogi guffawed. "You're too cute," he said. "When you sell your soul, Jou-kun, you skip that nasty dying business. Ascension has pretty much the same concept, and, hey, vamps do that to. It might seem like you're dying, but that's not true at all. I guess it's just an illusion for added flair and trauma; you can't have an un-tortured vampire after all."

Jou frowned, ignoring the pain in his abdomen. "Back up, rewind," he said. "So if vamps skip the dying process, and soul-sellers skip the dying process, but you're a vamp and _you've been in Purgatory before_, how the hell does that work?"

"Ooh, you _are_ clever," said Otogi, chuckling. "I take back what I said about you while you were unconscious. I died once after I became a vampire, eternal damnation, fire, brimstone, all that scary Puritan-scare tactic stuff. That's how I got down here. Except I didn't quite make it to the hell part because someone decided to save my damned soul. Sweet of him—cute kid, that one."

"What?" Jou tried to sit up, felt a lance of fire go through his chest, and decided it might be a better idea to stay lying down. "So, you died?" _Fuck, that hurts_.

Otogi beamed. "Yeah, I guess you could say that," he said, prodding his finger at a particularly clingy shade. "And it _sucked_. Word of advice from an old geezer, kid, don't try dying; it hurts like hell. I got a nice little stake through the ribs—still have a scar from where it went in. Actually, we were getting kind of close to sleeping with each other, so I'm not sure where his little change of heart came from. . .but yes, he stabbed me with a sharpened piece of wood and left me out in the sun to become dust. . .heh. Okay, okay, so maybe I was kind of sleeping with his sister too, at the time. . .but. . .haha. That's my sad story of woe. You got a tale of woe, pup?"

"Not really." Jou was thinking of Shizuka. _It's got to be morning now. . .she's gonna wake up and know I'm not there, and then what? God, I hope the old man doesn't get drunk tonight. . ._

When he thought 'God,' the pain was unbearable. He coughed until he was hacking up blood and was near to falling off the seat.

"Ah, hey, kid," said the vampire nervously, staring at the blotches of red-brown pooling on the seat and the floor. "I didn't say it earlier, but watch where you go choking up blood and stuff, I _do_ drink that sweet stuff, you know. Don't think or say the G-word anymore either; after you've damned your soul or attacked an angel all that merciful and forgiving crap is pretty much null and void."

_Forgot he was a bloodsucker for a minute there. _Jou nodded weakly. "Sure thing."

There was a screeching against the window from Jou's side. Instantly the vampire was alert. Swearing under his breath, he stalked over to where Joy lay and eyed the ghoul that was pawing at the glass, leaving deep scratches each time it rubbed against the surface. "Oooh, shit," said Otogi. "We're in nasty territory already. Hey, human kid, you wanna get away from the windows and lie under the seat, or something? If you get hurt more than you already are you're probably gonna die, then that demon friend of yours will have my ass, and that would suck. Anywho, it's not like I can die, so. . .yea. Get under a seat."

Jou let his breath out in a hiss between his teeth and raised himself to his elbows, preparing to roll off the seat and onto the floor. _G—ack. This is going to hurt like a motherfucker._

He hit the floor harder than he'd intended and swore until he realized that swearing was making it hurt all lot more.

The ghoul at the window had been joined by three others, and the vampire was very busily throwing dice at them in rattling multicolored handfuls. "Oh, this is not good," said the vampire, when the shades would not let go. "So not good. Shit." Two other ghouls crowded and shrieked at the other side of the train compartment.

Jou, securely under the seat now, heard the compartment door slide open and saw a pair of black boots clicking across the tiles. _Kaiba_.

"Kaiba-boy!" said the vampire delightedly, all but punching at the glass with his hands now. His manner had gone from tough and streetwise to dainty and sophisticated within seconds. "I was just going to go and ask you to join us. We seem to have a merry little party of ghouls on our hands. Might I venture to ask, by the way, who is driving this lovely contrapti—excuse me—train?"

"Pegasus would love you," muttered Kaiba under his breath. Under Jou's crouched body, the solidity of the train flickered once, then returned more concrete than ever. The demon's eyes had gone yellow and his entire body seemed sheathed in glass. When he moved, it was with the soft splinter of moving ice. "I'm going to let them in, Otogibanashi," he said. "Are you ready? And you, mutt. Don't lift your head or you might lose it. You got me?"

"And he does mean literally," added Otogi unhelpfully.

Kaiba snapped his fingers once. As fragments of ice fell to the train floor and melted before Jou's eyes, all the windows in the train cracked, tinkled, and broke.

The ghouls were on them instantly in a whirlwind of wailing gray forms and jagged silvery fingernails and teeth. Jou's scream was swallowed up in the metallic swoop of wings and claws; through the flurry of demon-like birds, he caught a glimpse of Kaiba, moving like water despite his current glacial form. The demon was flinging orbs of ice in every direction; since most of the ghouls were airborne as they were frozen, they would break as soon as they hit the ground. Otherwise, Otogi was flinging dice at the frozen shades, shattering them. The ones that didn't break, they flung outside the train.

_Fuck. This is crazy. Twenty-four hours ago I would never have imagined this. But, then again, a month ago, I would have never believed any of this anyway._

A ghoul found him and pounced. "Jesus _fuck_!" yelled Jou, and was rewarded with another flash of intense pain for his slip. Whatever it was, it was tearing at him with its nails—_shit, through my shirt already—_leering at him, grinning at him with a gaping black mouth.

"Ah—_ah_! _Get the fuck off me, you Purgatory bastard!_" he bellowed, kneeing it in the chest and sending what he thought was a wicked smash to its temple.

It reeled away with a limp flap of its wings.

_Fuckshithell_— He checked himself for any serious wounds and found none. _This is really starting to piss me off. If we get attacked by bears or something when we reach demonland, I'm going to turn around and go right back home, and these two lunatics can screw each other._

Above him, the ghouls were shrieking furiously and spinning around the vampire and the demon. Otogi seemed to be holding out nicely; as he was a vampire, all the wounds inflicted by the shades healed quickly and none of their attacks had fazed him despite blood loss. Kaiba, on the other hand, looked a little worse for wear, but Jou knew that it was his ice shield that had been nicked and not the actual demon underneath.

"You okay down there, kid?" shouted Otogi. "I heard a curse word or two! Or three. . .or four. . .well, you get the idea. Okay?"

Jou scowled. "Never been better, asshole!"

Two ghouls heard him. He grabbed one by the wings and slammed it into the seat about him, then snapped the other's arm and kicked it away from him. _Crap. . .if I end up with internal bleeding from all this shit, _someone_ is going to die. And it's not going to be me._

Darkness, and the screeching of metal.

Then the ghouls were gone. Otogi sagged into a chair and Kaiba, paler than ever now, repaired the windows with another snap of his fingers before following suit. His icy exterior was melting off him fast and evaporating into air.

"Kid," said the vampire breathlessly, dropping to his knees next to Jou. "Cough for me."

Jou was suddenly too tired to argue. He coughed and blood dripped into the vampire's waiting hands. Without another word, Otogi swept all the red liquid up to his mouth and drank it, his olive eyes gleaming.

"Thanks," he said, licking his fingers.

"Where are we now?" said Jou groggily, feeling a little weirded out and rather sickened at the sight of the vampire lapping his blood down like a cat. He was still on the floor, but all his adrenaline from the earlier fight had filtered out of his bloodstream. Maybe the vamp had ingested it.

Kaiba answered this time, sounding pained. "Out of Purgatory, damn Shaitan." The demon was sitting with his elbows on his knees, leaning away from the windows as though he expected more ghouls to swoop down on them. "When trains are full," he added, speaking only because he was too exhausted to keep quiet, "it's easier to fend them off. Sometimes there aren't windows, either." He sighed. "A design error on my part."

"Oh," said Jou, because there wasn't much else to say.

Otogi giggled and pointed. "Check it out," he said. "I didn't get to see these last time I died."

Jou raised his head the barest of fractions and looked. Everything was red; there was fire everywhere in the cavern. Flames sputtered and died and blossomed all around the train, casting a crimson glow across the plastic seats, staining Kaiba's brown hair auburn and turning his blue eyes purple.

Otogi was grinning at the scenery. His eyes lit up with every volcano they passed. "Ahh, this is so cool!" he crowed.

"Where. . .?" Jou mumbled.

Kaiba looked distant. "The fires of hell, mutt. We've arrived."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

A/N: _Alright! Faust has passed the 100 page mark _and_ the one hundred review mark. I'm very proud of that, I am. Haha, I'd meant to have this done at least four hours earlier. . .I'm sorry, for some reason the last five pages were really hard to write. . .well, I hope you liked everything!_

A/N: _Sorry. . .I'm a little tired today, so I won't be writing individual review-thank yous. . .hopefully the chapter update is enough? Ah, well. . .I'll write them next chapter, I promise. Right now I'm just sleepy and want to post this thing. Ahh! The first scene of the chapter pretty much dissolved into smut. . .actually, towards the end I came close to writing smut and sadistic Jou-torture scenes, but. . .yea, I stopped myself in time. (sweatdrop) Hehe. . .I abuse my characters when I get into bad moods. . .sorry, guys! (waves at Yuugiou cast)_

_Notes:_

_Okay. . .Otogibanashi means fairy tale; I'm pretty sure of that. As for the demon train, well. . .it's a demonic summoning, not much to be said about it. Are there normal demon trains between realms? Yes. But Kaiba's train is kind of illegal—we haven't gotten there yet of course. . .heehee._

_Lucifer! Imagine a little cat no larger than your hand, snow white and like Bastet's cat in appearance. . .his full name is Lucifer-Bastet, hence Bakura's name of 'Lucibast' for him. As mentioned in an earlier chapter, he coughs up magical hairballs and the like, but if you keep him in small spaces (aka pockets) then he won't cough up hairballs at all. Otherwise, hold him to an open window and pray._

_Those shades. Asphodel is like Greek Purgatory. . .so that's where that comes from. I know I kept saying "shade," "ghoul," and "ghost," but really all you need to imagine is a bird-like ghost with wings, teeth, claws, and a very nasty temper indeed._

_Ah, yes. About the angels and the God part. (sweatdrop) I don't meant to come off as an atheist. . .but it seems to me that more higher-ranking angels and demons are going to be heartless._

_When Kaiba said "damn Shaitan," he essentially meant "thank God," but in the demonic sense._

_Bakura is such a playboy. I'm getting depressed thinking about it._

A/N: _So, that's it for now. Things are picking up a bit, I hope. I don't know when I'm going to start the next chapter, or finish it, but I guess you can look at late-March, early-April, since scifair is over and, except for a few term papers, the long-term projects for school are pretty much done for the year. As soon as school lets out, I will be writing like a fiend. That is my promise._

**To All Reviewers: **Thank you ever so much for being so sweet and patient.

_Next chapter:_

_Marikku carries out his scheme, we get a couple of business deals and a visit from the Twelve. What happened to Yami and Yuugi?_

_ryuujitsu co._


	6. math and sodomy

FAUST  
yuugiou fanfiction  
ryuujitsu & co.  
chapter six: math and sodomy

Disclaimer: Saying we own Yuugiou is like saying it's still wintertime. You can tell it's spring because my entire family is starting to sneeze again, so. . .dammit, don't argue with me. (And you can tell I wrote this disclaimer a long time ago because it's hot as hell outside right now.)

A/N: _Er, hello. I have two things to say. One, I'm sorry that Faust is late, and two, please forgive me. I had a terrible case of writer's block when I first attempted to start writing this chapter, but I think it's cleared up somewhat now. I am very sorry for the delay (as usual), and again I thank everyone for their patience. My (fuck) buddy and I have sort of stabilized, so I want to get as much of Faust done before the trouble inevitably starts up again. (sweatdrop) Er, I lied. We haven't stabilized at all. . .haha, but things are better now that school is out. Thank you so very much for your patience._

_I am collecting anti-writer's block tools. . .please donate to the cause! Haha._

ITFTC:

"also, I wish to remove the skins of 3 human people"

Yukari

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

The vampire couldn't exactly breathe, but he was doing a good job of blowing and puffing. The undead air rushed against Jou's unprotected neck and sucked back a moment later against bared fangs, and finally Otogi said shakily to Kaiba, "I think you'd better take him. Vampires and necks and all that, you know."

"Don't. . .fucking drop. . .me. . ."

So Jounouchi, barely conscious, was quietly passed to the ice demon, who wasn't looking so good himself. Kaiba felt damp to Jou's skin, his face glazed with sweat from the heat of the fires. He hoisted the dead weight of the boy up a few centimeters, and, ignoring Jou's pained grumble of protest, slid his arm roughly around the boy's waist. "Walk, mutt," he said in Jou's ear, tightening his hold as Jounouchi stumbled and nearly fell. "I will not carry you."

"He doesn't look like he'll make it," said Otogi doubtfully. To Jou's ears, the vampire sounded a long way off.

_Oh, shit, it's too hot,_ thought Jou, eyelids flickering. He clutched at the demon's arm, trying to get it to loosen. _I'm in hell, literally. My stomach hurts. . .can't breathe. . .G—shit. Let go of me, you bastard!_ He staggered again and gagged in agony as one of his cracked ribs pressed into the demon's hand. He elbowed hard at Kaiba's side, coughing out swear words.

Kaiba cursed in demonic and unconsciously tightened his grip on Jou's waist again. "_Walk_," he hissed at Jounouchi. "I said I wasn't going to carry you!"

"Goddammit!" Jounouchi snarled, tearing away from both of his supernatural companions. "My ribs are fucking broken, you shithead, and all you do is squeeze 'em harder! Are you trying to kill me, asshole! Is that what you're trying to—_angh_!" He choked and wrapped both arms around his torso, his chest heaving with frantic, blood-clogged breaths as the pain hit again. "You're lucky. . .I didn't puncture a. . .lung. . ." he rasped, ignoring the look of wide-eyed rapture on Otogi's face as the vampire watched the blood dripping from between his lips.

Kaiba caught him as he tumbled backward, careful to grab the boy's shoulders this time instead. Jounouchi mumbled like a sleepy child, staring balefully up at the demon's face. "I don't get. . .it. Why. . .won't you. . .just. . ."

His eyes flickered. ". . .fuck. . .off?"

Otogi padded up behind the demon. "Hey, hey," he said, fingering Jou's sweat- and blood-soaked shirt. "I was being serious. He took a pretty bad beating from that angel and now you're expecting him to be able to walk however many kilometers across the fires of hell? That's a little harsh, Kaiba-boy."

Kaiba was glaring down at the semi-conscious boy, seemingly on the verge of an apoplectic rage. "We are being pursued by a group of angels," he said, biting off the end of each word. It was as though he was speaking to the boy. "If we don't reach the underworld before they realize our whereabouts, then our 'welcoming party' will consist of an entire legion of angel elite. And though I do not know why _you_ are here or what you want from me," he continued frigidly, turning to Otogi with glass daggers in his eyes, "but I _will_ find my brother. Hinder my journey and I will send you to Purgatory yet again—and then you will burn."

Otogi was unfazed. "Yeah, hellfire and brimstone again. All that junk," he said cheerfully, waving his hand. "Been threatened with it before." His eyes narrowed. "But you'd better watch that kid, Kaiba-boy. He's your key back in, isn't he? You were banished and this is your only way to slip back while no one's looking, via the soul-market."

The demon had gone very still. When he spoke again it was with the heavy grate of steel on steel. "Yes. What's your point, vampire?"

In the distance, a volcano spat fire; ash rained down around them while the acrid smell of sulfur burned their eyes and throats. Shadrach was the first demonic town near the train station; the gate to the underworld. It was a fair distance away, and purple dusk was approaching the demonic sky, like the maroon color that dried blood often takes, broken by intermittent explosions of orange fire and gray flakes of volcanic residue. The fires would fade by the time they reached Shadrach, and then it would be time to. . .

"Where are we going?" said Otogi. "After Shadrach, that is."

Kaiba eyed Jounouchi's slack mouth and the blood dribbling from one of its corners with something akin to disgust. "The City of the Thousand Citadels," he said. "Dahlia. My cousin will be there. The black market of souls as well."

"I'll carry the kid," said Otogi brusquely, opening his arms. "Let's go."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

"Where were you last night, Ryou-kun?" asked Amano. He was pouring black coffee into various mugs without looking at what he was doing; instead, his golden eyes were fixed on Ryou, who squirmed uncomfortably under the other soul's gaze. "Jin-Ho and I are really sorry about last night. We didn't realize it would get you into so much trouble with Master Bakura. Are you. . ." Here he hesitated and looked Ryou over, setting the coffee pot down on the countertop, blinking in relative confusion as he saw Ryou seemed more dazed than harmed. ". . .alright?"

Ryou flushed and fingered the weave of the muffin basket nervously. "_Daijoubu_, Amano-kun."

Jin-Ho appeared with a similar basket on her hip. Seeing that Ryou was up, she dropped it on the counter and smiled waveringly at him. "Ryou. About last night—I wanted to say I'm really sor—"

Ryou waved his hand to cut her off, his face burning. "No, no, really, it's alright," he said quickly, before she could interrupt with a protest. "I'm not hurt or anything. Really." He smiled back at her and she relaxed visibly. "See? I'm alright, honestly. Bakura—he wasn't too upset."

That was a lie, but as Ryou figured he had already sold his soul to the devil, it couldn't hurt.

Jin-Ho took him by the shoulders and stared into his eyes. "You're lying," she said in a trembling voice, and Ryou was surprised to see tears welling up under her lashes. "Oh, I'm so sorry, Ryou. We were so worried—Mana had no idea what had happened, but Sara knew and she wouldn't tell us. . .we thought maybe. . ." she faltered and moved her hands to rub at her glistening eyes. "I'm sorry."

"Coffee!" a demon yelled from outside the kitchen. Amano started and grabbed the coffee pot, dashing out with it in one hand while he balanced a tray of pastries precariously on the other.

"I'm alright, honestly," said Ryou again, his temples throbbing with what he assumed was the aftereffect of one swallow of demonic vodka. "Bakura was a perfect gentleman." _And a perfect playboy. _He sighed, sifting through the muffin basket for a blueberry muffin; upon finding it, he ripped off a piece and put it in his mouth, ignoring Jin-Ho's wide-eyed look of shock. He had discovered earlier that he no longer had to eat or drink, but simply out of human habit, he had felt the hollow imitations of hunger and thirst in his stomach—and the muffins were right there. Bakura's guests wouldn't miss a little section of muffin anyway.

"Oh, you—" said Jin-Ho, her voice admiring. "Aren't you already in enough trouble, you rebel?"

"Tell me about Bakura," said Ryou, leaning against the counter. He had taken the blueberry muffin in his hands and was nibbling at it nonchalantly, watching the girl. "I don't know a thing about him."

"Master Bakura?" said Jin-Ho. "Hm." She put her back to the wall opposite, pursing her lips thoughtfully. "Well, he's a demon, I suppose. I don't know his life's story or anything. He bought me six years ago. I'd been in the market for two years before that—I kept running away, you see. I was a real troublemaker." She smiled in remembrance and went on. "I used to belong to a demon baker—I forget his name now—he was really thick, that one, and I got out without any real trouble. They caught me and brought me back to him, and that went on for a year before he got sick of paying the catchers to hunt for me and sold me back to the auctioneers. After that no one wanted to buy me, at least not until Master Bakura came along.

"Mm, I suppose it was after that that the trouble began," she said, writing figures on the table and making a quick calculation. "The underworld's been at war, you know, for the longest time. Supposedly ANKH's been around for fifteen demon years—almost fifty human years, but it was the first I'd ever heard of it. It moves around a lot, in relation to the war, I guess. When Master Bakura purchased me, we were based in Vladmir. . .but our location was bombed—actually, I think it was that bombing that broke the truce—so we had to move. We came to Dahlia, and that's where we've been for the past ten months, if you're still in demonic time."

"And Bakura?" said Ryou, eating the muffin slowly.

Jin-Ho frowned at him. "What do you mean, 'and Bakura'? Master Bakura is a fairly young demon, you know—maybe, if you looked at him like he was a human, you'd say he was in his early twenties, not even. He's really not as old as you'd think. He isn't all that great, Ryou," she warned. "I've seen your face. He's no good. Especially with souls. You have to realize that he has no capacity for a real—relationship, if that's what you want to call it—he looks at everything like a plaything, and if he—well—you just have to know that he's like a child, totally immature with an never-ending supply of toys and money."

She scowled and continued. "I have club shifts, after all. I see how he is with those demon women. They're all like this, demons! I hope this war of theirs destroys them all!"

_Ouch. I forgot she dislikes demons._ Ryou was on his last bite of muffin when the ankh on his chest suddenly flared to life and he started, almost choking.

"Shaitan! I'm hurt, Jin-Ho," said Bakura airily from the kitchen doorway. He strode in, his hand resting dramatically over his heart, his red eyes gleaming. "What have I said about loitering? You're here to work—so work. Don't stand there gawping at me. Shoo, shoo! You can plot the destruction of my demonic race later." Jin-Ho flashed the silver fiend a half-glare, then grabbed Ryou's muffin basket and scampered off indignantly.

Ryou had snatched up a spare coffee pot and was about to follow suit, his ears burning, but Bakura slipped his slim fingers around the boy's wrist and tugged. The coffee pot flew out of Ryou's hands and shattered across the floor, a dark splotch of steaming liquid spreading across the tiles—

Then Ryou was backed up against the far wall, stepping through spatters of coffee and shards of broken glass that crunched underfoot, and Bakura was looming over him. . .

"Ah. . ."

For a moment all he could see were the demon's eyes, and he was mesmerized by the red wreathed by the shocks of white hair. His jaw was going numb from the grip of Bakura's long fingers, and then Bakura kissed him hard, forcing his head back and parting his lips roughly with his tongue. Teeth jarred and Ryou hissed in pain as Bakura bit the corner of his mouth, then exhaled through his nose as Bakura licked at the sore spot, his hands sliding down to hold Ryou's arms in place. The kiss was long and when Bakura finally did pull away, he wiped his mouth against the side of Ryou's neck as he did. Ryou's eyes followed the demon's pink lower lip in fascination as it curved up and inward into the white cheek.

"Merrrow. Blueberry," said Bakura, smirking lazily. He ran a finger up Ryou's throat and under the boy's chin, lifting it a fraction before attacking again.

Ryou flushed and mumbled an incoherency. His heel was bleeding from the broken glass, he noted absently.

"You," said Bakura, between kisses, "are. . .so. . ._cute_. . ."

Ryou pressed himself further against the wall as the demon teased down his neck, staring uncertainly at his fingers, which were interlaced with the demon's. White on transparency. Bakura's mouth burned pleasantly against his skin. "Nnm—stop," Ryou muttered, so softly he wasn't sure if he'd actually said it aloud.

Apparently he _had_ said it audibly enough, because Bakura drew away and looked down at him, humming innocently. "Ye—s?" he said, leaving a dreamy breathless pause between the 'ye' and the 's.'

"Ryou, you still—_aiie!_" In the threshold between the kitchen and the café, Jin-Ho dropped the platter of muffins and let out a tinny shriek of dismay. Her right hand clamped firmly over her mouth and her brown-black eyes were impossibly wide as she stared at the boy, and then the at demon, and took in their positions.

A muffin rolled to a halt by Ryou's left foot. His other foot had managed to tangle itself (along with his right leg) around Bakura's hip.

"Mmrf," said Ryou eloquently, staring back at Jin-Ho in equal horror.

Bakura blinked. "Oh," he said, clearing his throat. "Hello," he added as though it would be impolite to do otherwise. Then, much to Ryou's chagrin, he returned his attention to Ryou's swollen lower lip.

_Oh. . .dear._

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

"What?" said Amano, his stare alternating from Bakura to Ryou. He pushed his hair behind his ears as though it had been blotting out his hearing. "What?" he said again, amber eyes wide. Jin-Ho sat with her legs crossed and her arms folded, looking with sullen amazement at Ryou. In the corner, Sara was mute, watching Bakura intently with her small hands clasped daintily in her lap.

"Yes," said Bakura cheerfully, slinging a casual arm around Ryou's shoulders. "Since it's become apparent to me that he's _such_ a bad influence on the rest of you, I'm going to move Ryou to separate quarters until he changes his mind and decides to. . .ah. . ._behave_. Meow."

"Ryou didn't do anything!" said Amano loudly, albeit nervously. "It—it was Jin-Ho's fault—"

"Oh, so it's my fault now?" said Jin-Ho, without malice. She was looking at Ryou with a pitying sort of regret. Sara fiddled with one of her ringlets, her eyes blank and cold.

"Bakura," said Ryou faintly.

"That's _Master_ Bakura to you, soul-boy," said Bakura, suddenly icy, and Ryou bit his over-bitten lip and was silent, the back of his neck burning. "You're definitely cute; I won't deny that. Consider this a training phase—not deferential treatment."

Outside, night had fallen over Dahlia. After the incident in the kitchen, Bakura had switched out, leaving Ryou to deal with his café shift, his bloody foot, and Jin-Ho's questions. _What. . .what the hell? Ryou?_ Jin-Ho had said, staring at him. Ryou had eased himself onto the tiled floor and nursed his wounded foot, his cheeks and ears reddening. Then someone outside, one of the more hung-over party-goers from the night before, sent up a cry for coffee, "black as fucking sin." Ryou took the opportunity to grab an un-broken pot of cold coffee and dashed out of the kitchen, limping somewhat to ease the pressure on his injured heel.

_The demon leaned forward, whispering: 'You. . .are. . .so. . ._cute_. . .'_

"Any questions?" said Bakura brightly, bringing Ryou out of his reverie with a jolt.

"No, sir," said Jin-Ho and Amano in unison; both spoke with barely perceptible frowns. Sara seemed to be smirking as she nodded; it was hard to tell from the opaque quality of her fey eyes.

"Ah, that's good," said the silver fiend, his own eyes crackling with fiery merriment. "Let's get you set up, then, soul-boy. You two, take your club shifts. Merow. I'll be along shortly. Shoo, shoo."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Malik said. He had finished tearing and knotting the bedclothes; the fifteen meter length of makeshift rope lay coiled across the floor. There was also, rather conveniently, a slender window in his room—not very large, but large enough that someone thin—someone of Malik's stature, in fact—would be able to slip in and out. Oh, and beyond that window? A perilous one hundred meter drop into a pointy fence that would probably turn him into a Malik-_kabob_ in seconds.

Marikku's face frowned out at him from the mirror. _Well, no, not exactly,_ the demon admitted sheepishly. _But it's better than having to face the castle-traps._

Malik took the remaining pillowcase (that he had filched from Pegasus' room) and ripped the ornate silk into a long strip, which he wound diagonally from his left shoulder to his hips. He took the mirror, kissed it, and tucked it into the crude sash. "Allah—" here he winced "—be with me."

It took him a moment to find the end of the sheet-rope, but when he at last located it, he wrapped it as securely as he could around the windowsill. Pegasus had probably neglected to furnish the rooms with poles and bedposts for a reason, Malik realized. He tried a triple knot and then tied what he thought was a fairly good imitation of a sailor's knot over that, and then he picked the entire mass of torn sheets up and heaved it over the ledge.

It unfurled rapidly. Malik had tied his spare set of robes at the end to make an extra meter, and the sequined blue brocade glimmered faintly, two stories down.

_Careful_, whispered Marikku from where the mirror was situated at the boy's waist.

"Of course I'm going to be fucking careful!" snapped Malik, but he wiped his sweaty palms on his linen shift again, just to make sure he didn't slip. He had wadded a tiny square of cloth into the keyhole of his room, to prevent the other housekeepers or his new master from unlocking the door. It was a futile attempt considering that most demons used magic, but Pegasus had proved himself to be surprisingly mundane in the past few days that Malik had known him.

The improvised rope was short—a little too short to get him safely down that hundred meter fall—but it was long enough for him to swing into the window of the room two floors below.

_Okay,_ he said to himself. _Let's do this. And carefully. Yeah. Carefully would be good._ The windowsill was low, a ventilation gap that opened at his thigh and closed again near the top of his stomach. He went to his knees and stuck his feet out first, easing himself backward.

"Slowly. . .slowly. . .slo—oh, _shit_!"

For a moment he was falling, hands scrabbling vainly to find purchase on the smooth-hewn sill before his body tumbled out the unexpectedly slanted shaft and into empty air, the skin on his stomach and right cheek scratching against the rougher stone of the outer castle walls. _Shit shit shitshitshitshit—_

His hands found the sheets, caught, and held, four meters before the rope ended and the abrupt plunge began. The cloth stretched to its limit and the knots tightened. Malik, swearing creatively, took inventory and found a few bleeding knuckles.

_Malik?_ said Marikku, his voice muffled.

"I'm okay, I'm okay, dammit," growled Malik, his hands fisting around the rope. The entire contraption was swinging ominously and he wasn't very fond of the idea of becoming a human pendulum some thirty stories up from the ground. And then there was that fence, all spiky, just waiting for him to slip.

"No, no fucking shish kabob for you, you bastard of a fence. . .nope, not today."

_What? Did you just say. . .shish kabob? _said Marikku vaguely, sounding both distorted and confused now. Malik patted the lump where the mirror rested. "Nothing, dear," he said caustically, and he began climbing down, lowering himself with deliberate speed, his knees hugging the wall as his toes felt around for another window ledge.

He grunted as he stubbed his toe against a protruding stone. "Fuck! Almost. . .fucking. . .there. . ._aha_!" His foot found the window and slid forward and up.

Malik forced his other foot into the opening, finding, to his dismay, that he had either gained eight kilograms on his way down, or this window was a great deal smaller than the one he had crawled-slash-fallen out from. _Oh. . .fuck. Not good._ He loosened his grip on the rope and anchored his legs into the window with his knees. _Okay. . .I'm hanging upside-down and there's a fence with spikes at the bottom that wants my ass on a pike. Literally. So. . .not falling._

He wriggled until his hips were sandwiched between the edges of the window, then wriggled some more. Then he let go of the rope and twisted his body until he was hanging out of the window with his skinned stomach pressed against the sharply-cut stone ledge.

"First-level's _fire_," he whispered, like they had rehearsed, with one hand on the mirror and the other reaching out to touch the sheet-rope. It took him two tries but Marikku's magic finally caught, and soon the fire was racing up the sheet, burning happily.

Malik inched his head past the windowsill and collapsed, boneless, into the room, barely missing upsetting a mop. _Storage_, he noted with some satisfaction_. Just like I thought. Shouldn't be anyone here until sun-up._ He was drowsy, his body feeling the aftereffects of magic-channeling.

He took the mirror out from the sash and wiped it a few times. "Marikku? You still there?"

_Eh? Yeah. Still here._

Malik tucked his scratched-up legs beneath his body, crouching in the corner of the storage room. The drowsiness had passed into a sort of deep exhaustion that rolled over his body in three-second intervals. His eyelids felt heavy. "I'm feeling kind of tired. I don't think anyone will notice I'm gone until tomorrow, anyway. I'm going to take a quick nap, and maybe it'll be better if I leave in broad daylight—"

_Malik!_ Marikku's voice was sharp. _Stay with me. Don't you dare fall asleep on me. Hey, Malik! Blessit! Malik, keep talking to me!_

"O-okay," Malik said, and yawned enormously. He pushed his back hard against the corner and began inching up, wheezing a little from the dust. "Why. . .why did the chicken cross the road, Marikku?"

_What?_

"You said talk to you," he said a bit crossly, giving the mirror a shake. "So I'm talking. Now why the hell did the fucking chicken cross the fucking road?"

_Because it was hungry?_ said Marikku, sounding very concerned. _Malik. Did you hit your head on the way down?_

"It's a fucking _human_ thing, darling," growled Malik. His knees were trembling a bit beneath him and he put a hand against the wall to steady himself, breathing in slow hitching gasps. "There we go." Once he had stood the blood rushed from his head and into his limbs and black swarmed behind his eyes; he dug his heels into the floor and waited until the moment passed, taking the fatigue with it.

"Okay." His voice was subdued. "Now what?"

_You're in the storeroom, right? Alright. Find something small, like maybe a dustpan or a piece of glass—something sharp. If you react this way to magic channeling then we aren't going to get very far using my magic. Then you have to figure out how to use it._

Malik eyed the gleaming butcher knife on the shelf across him and grinned. _Pegsy's chef must use this room. _"Well, isn't that convenient."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

It was dark. Ryou saw the strange pale shape of his own hand, glowing white as he reached forward. "Mum," he called, stumbling in the blackness. "Mum!"

_Thrice dev'lish. . ._ She never seemed to move, but with each step he took she was always a few paces beyond his grasp. She, too, was glowing, her entire body sheathed with a lavender gloss that haloed her long hair and extended beyond her back into—

_Wings!_

Yes, he could see the faint purple outline of the feathers. "Mum!" He was frantic now, forcing himself to sprint as fast as his legs would carry him. "No, don't go! It's me, it's Ryou—Amane! Where's Amane? Mum, no! Come back, don't, you can't—" The words were exploding desperately out of his mouth as he surged forward. "—_don't fly, Mum!_"

Mana's face tore abruptly into his view. "Ryou!" she said, giving him a hard shake. "For hell's sake, calm down!"

"Mu—Mana?" Ryou was lying on his back in the study, his hands outstretched stiffly in front of him, fingers clawing at air. Mana's long fingernails were digging into his shoulders, her blue eyes unexpectedly concerned. She gave him one last shake and stepped away, straightening her uniform. Ryou struggled to a sitting position, hastily reordering the books he had dropped. "What happened?"

"How the bloody haven should I know," Mana snapped, looking more terrified than irritated. "I—I. . .I had some enchantments set up here—f-f-for protection—and you. . .you must have just reacted badly!"

"Enchantments?" _That bloody well didn't feel like 'enchantments.' _Ryou half-snorted before he remembered that this was Bakura's right-hand demoness that he was talking to. "Right. . .enchantments."

"Shaitan," Mana muttered, stooping over to retrieve the books that she had thrown to the side to get to Ryou. Her translucent pink skin had gone strangely opaque, turning chalky white. She began restacking her books on the desk. "I thought you were having a seizure. Jerking around, muttering something strange." She paused as if having a revelation and stared at him hard, her mouth falling open like a red 'o' in her pasty face. "Did you dream? What did you see? Can you describe it to me?"

"My mother," Ryou replied, getting to his feet and reaching for some books.

Mana snatched them out of his reach and put them on the shelves herself. "Rest a bit," she said, eyeing him. "You're pale. But go on."

Ryou blinked. "_I'm_ pale?" he said scathingly, forgetting his place yet again. His fingers flitted to the ankh on his chest and toyed with it as he watched the demoness' face change colors. "_You_ look as though you've seen a ghost." He recoiled somewhat as Mana lifted her hand, as if to strike him. "I saw my mother. She was moving—always too far away from me. And when I ran after her, she—" here his voice wavered with faint horror "—she flew away. _Flew_. No, not what you're thinking. Not like an angel. Like some great distorted bird, she flew away from me."

Mana frowned as though she was trying to imagine what he had seen. "And this is a new dream for you?"

Ryou shook his head. "No. I've been having it since—" he faltered "—since her death. Mana, you're a practicing sorceress, aren't you?"

She flinched. "What do you mean by that?"

"Nothing." He met her eyes, clasping his hands in his lap. The ankh dangled. "Mana, have you ever heard of a spell or an incantation—maybe even a prophecy—involving the words 'thrice dev'lish?'"

She said a little too quickly: "No."

"And your former master—Mahaado—did he ever speak of anything with those two words?" Ryou pressed, leaning forward eagerly.

"No! Now let it go, Ryou." She glared, having regained her composure. "Master Bakura has placed you under my supervision for the time being, so I suggest you remember your status before I have to report you to him!"

He flushed and tightened his grip on some books convulsively. "Ah. . .sorry."

She scowled and jerked a neon green scarf over the lower portion of her face, muffling her voice. "Good. Now that _that_'s over with, let's get to work. I want you to get that duster over there and fix up the bookshelves in the left corner. Don't touch these books on the desk; they're Master Bakura's. I can't use magic," she added, at Ryou's quizzical look, "because that will damage the books.

"Try to do it as quickly as possible and do your best not to inhale, because sometimes the older books leak magic. It's not good to breathe that sort of powder into your system. Consider it a sort of magical carcinogen." She tossed Bakura's red bandana at him. "Here. Tie this over your nose and mouth to keep it out."

Ryou caught the bandana and felt another trill of old power tingling against his fingers. Being a demonic item, the cloth burned against his face, but the pain was lessening, reduced to a sort of unpleasant scratchiness.

"Thanks," he said, sounding vague through the bandana. He found the duster—a very mundane duster indeed—and went to work.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

"Aw, shit." Malik was at a literal fork in the road, staring down the veritable labyrinth of corridors at each end of the three pathways. He was holding the mirror in one hand and the knife in the other, pivoting slowly to give Marikku a full view of the dilemma. "This castle doesn't look so fucking _big_ from the outside."

Marikku too seemed to be at a loss. _Uh. . ._ he said. _This isn't. . .what Isis said there would be._

"Well, what the fuck," said Malik, squatting on his heels. He scratched at the bridge of his foot with the flat of the butcher knife. "Now what?"

_Let me get Isis. Maybe she—_

A sudden severe image of the demonic woman, dripping tastefully in gold, her nostrils flared and whitened, flashed before Malik's eyes. _'Human scum!'_ she said in exasperation, albeit almost fondly, _'you've corrupted my brother. You have to tell me how you did it. Do you want a cookie?'_ And then the cookie jar was brandished.

"No!" Malik grabbed the mirror with both hands in his terror, dropping the knife. It clattered to the floor and avoided slicing open his big toe by the smallest of margins. "Please. Not Isis. You gotta have some consideration for my feelings here. Please don't get your sister. Dear Allah. Not Isis!"

Marikku blinked. _Okay, okay. . .so, not Isis. What should we do? Pegsy's castle is not a maze like this. I've been in here before and as far as I can remember there was one hallway. . .the left one, maybe?_

"Well, fine," said Malik loudly, getting to his feet. "I suppose I'll just go left and hope that it's the right one—"

He moved ten paces and slammed into something very solid and very un-corridor-like. Rubbing his nose, which had begun to bleed, Malik jerked away from the empty hallway and swore violently. "_Ibn-kalb!_ My face! What the hell!"

Both left and right hallways evaporated, leaving a single corridor punctured by multiple protruding spearheads, spaced equally at every fifteen centimeters. All four walls were pockmarked with them. An ominous hissing filled the air as spearheads from a great distance away began to shoot out from their holes, ready to impale anyone within reach.

Marikku and Malik made the realization at the same time. "Fucking _hell_!" screamed Malik, eyes wide with fright. He fell and began to scramble backwards, his hands groping around for the knife on the floor. "Castle traps!"

He found the knife and snatched it up, watching hopelessly as the spears sprang up, coming closer and closer to where he was standing. There was no way in hell that he would be able to fend off an attack from all angles—especially not with a butcher knife. The blade was too dull to begin with. "I love you," he said to the mirror, and he started swinging wildly, deciding that if he was going to go out it would be with a tremendous bang.

_Looks like I'm gonna be shish kabob after all. . ._

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

"Thank you," said Yami firmly, pressing six dezsras into old man's leathery palm. The man nodded feebly and went back to putting at the tiller; Yami took Yuugi by the wrist and guided the angel from the ferry, pulling him solidly onto the dock. "Here we are," he said, forcing a cheerful tone into his voice. "Arachne."

"_Hae_," said the angel, reaching up to touch his face. Yami closed his eyesand exhaled.

Arachne was a gloomy sight. Though it was not involved in the triangle of fighting and unrest, business had been badly affected by the war and only a few dreary fishing and merchant vessels could be seen docked in the harbor, bobbing exhaustedly on lumpy gray waves. At the harbor bazaar only two stands were operating—a demonic woman hawking trinkets and another tired-looking man selling fish, which lay in a vast rainbow pile, scintillating in the relative black-and-white atmosphere. The sun had been blotted out by a constant haze of clouds and it was drizzling lightly, dampening the air.

"Stop," Yami hissed, his voice hoarse as the short plump fingers trailed across his cheek and down his neck. Panicked now under the suspicious dead gaze of the bauble-woman, he went on in angelic: "_Yuutsi. . .ting!_"

Yuugi recoiled and drew his hand down, reaching into the folds of Yami's cloak where the demon prince curled his own hand around the angel's smaller one, squeezing reassuringly.

_I love you._ Yami wondered if Yuugi could hear his thoughts.

"Fish!" yelled the fish-seller suddenly, coming alive as he realized that these were potential customers standing before him. Yami jumped, fingernails digging into the back of the angel's hand. "Fresh fish! Bonito! Candied mermaid scales! Best prices! Best prices this side o' the underworld!"

Yami, gripping the angel's hand firmly, took three steps forward. "Excuse me," he said. "Would it be possible for you to direct us to a tavern?"

"Candied mermaid scales," said the man obstinately, brandishing a limp mesh bag of six or seven blue, wedge-shaped scales. "Two dezsras per. Perchance yer younger brother would like some? They're good, Arachne specialty. Used to make 'em all the time for the tourists. Now they're on discount. We do a nice process in the making—three coats o' gloss—these are worth at least three times more than the price I'm giving ye."

Yami eyed the pathetically drooping bag and sighed. "I'll take two."

The man beamed and held out his gnarled hand, his other hand reaching for the pile of scales. "Tha'll be four dezsras."

"Another dezsra says where the nearest tavern is," said Yami, slapping the money down between them. Yuugi reached out and pocketed the pouches of mermaid scales, smiling with childish delight at the prospect of sweets.

"Make it three and we have a deal," said the man.

Yami dug for the coins and pushed them into the man's hand. "Alright," he said. "There's your money. Now tell us."

"Down near the edge of the dock ye'll find a narrow road—ye'll know it because o' the cobblestones—and if ye head down that road aways ye'll find the Sickle-Toothed Sea Hag. Owner's name is Mess'r Pipes. Thanks for doin' business, Mess'r. Hope to see ye again soon." They shook hands.

"Come along," said Yami to the angel, with the appropriate stiffness of a demonic elder sibling. He nodded once to the man before turning.

Yuugi, clutching Yami's fingers in one hand and a single scale in the other, skipped along to keep up with the Crown Prince's smooth stride. They made it to the edge of the dock past the deserted stalls and rounded the corner. The road was lined with uneven pentagon-shaped cobblestones of a mottled gray-brown color. _Kelp Lane_, the sign read. Yami picked up the pace.

The angel nibbled on the scale as they ran, making an occasional noise of surprised content. "_Hn hao tze_," Yuugi whispered confidentially. "_Ni yao ii kwai ma?_"

"Not now," said Yami. And then, with the abrupt horror of realization: "Oh. . .shit. Yuugi! Spit that out right now! Have you swallowed any? Shaitan-blessit—_don't swallow, Yuugi!_"

The angel paled and began to cough.

With a tinkle, the halo that had been spelled invisible cracked into two neat pieces and fell to the ground. Yuugi shrieked like a dying thing and dropped to his knees, groping around frantically for the fast-dissolving shards, scratching his fingers against the sharp edges of the cobblestones.

_Too late. _Yami felt a dull blow of guilt to his stomach. _Shit, shit, shit, shit! What was I thinking, feeding him?_

Like Persephone of millennia before, an angel of God had partaken in the food of Shaitan's underworld. Falling was inevitable—and imminent. First the halo—then the wings—and then—

_It's my fault. I brought him here. I let him eat._

"Shaitan," he breathed, kneeling beside the angel, who was staring blankly at the ground. "Shaitan. . .Yuugi. . .I'm sorry. I forgot—I forgot that you can't eat anything here—you've. . .ah. . .I wanted to delay this. . ." He gulped and clasped the tiny childlike hand in his own. "You've begun to Fall. I'm so sorry. Yuugi—"

"Will it hurt?" said Yuugi in a small voice.

Yami's eyes burned. "I would imagine so," he said, and kissed the dainty forehead and cheeks and lips, his voice catching somewhere in his throat. He gulped. "I'm so sorry. I'm sorry. . ._Shaitan below_, I'm so sorry, Yuugi."

"No. . ." Yuugi mumbled, still staring senselessly at the cobblestones. "It's alright. . ._Hae_. . .I'd Fall. . .for you. . .and you know it. . .it's alright. Please don't cry."

"Tavern—" croaked Yami, lurching to his feet and pulling the angel with him. "I don't want you outside when It happens—"

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Malik's hands were sweaty around the hilt of the knife. His constant swearing had turned into a steady stream of prayer and he was waving the knife around like a madman. "Allahallahallahallah_allahallah_—"

_Ma_—"lik!"

Light blossomed in the shadowy corridor, and in the center a dark indiscernible silhouette rose into being. The figure was that of a man with both hands extended, and as the glare of light finally faded, Malik caught sight of spiky golden hair and reddened blue eyes smeared with kohl. There was a high pitched whistle and the boy stared in amazement as glistening spearheads clattered to the floor. Four wooden staves came to a jarring halt, each a bare centimeter from Malik's dark skin.

"Ah. . ._Marikku!_ Marikku, Marikku!" Malik jumped forward, heedless of the spearheads that littered the ground. He grabbed the demon around the neck and kissed him hard.

The man shook his head, breathing hard. "Not really. This is—a projection of myself—so I can do the magic—I'm not really—not really here. Form-switching. It's more Isis' specialty since she's the moon-y one. . .but it works with my spells too. It won't drain. It's just been a long time since I've had to do this—at least eighty years." His expression was distant. "Look at—look at your mirror. See, I'm still there." Not-quite-Marikku bent over and began taking slow, steady breaths, his pattern occasionally broken by a sharp gasp. One arm snaked around Malik's waist.

Malik glanced down. Marikku's face was still in the mirror, his eyes glazed and empty as though he were in a deep trance. Near his temple a vein twitched. Malik grinned and tapped the face of the mirror. "Ohhh. I _see_."

"I think Pegasus will have heard us. I'll stay with you as long as I can," said not-quite-Marikku, straightening. "Now that the traps have been activated, I don't know how many he has or how long they last. So stay close. Oh," he added, stopping suddenly. Malik crashed into him with a loud curse. "I'm still somewhat drunk. Thought I should tell you that."

"What!" yelled Malik, with incredulous fury. "You mean you were drunk when you told me to climb out that window! You son of a bitch!"

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Mana watched Ryou's back as the boy departed the room with Bakura's red bandana still tied around his neck. She set the dusters down and curled up behind her master's desk, hunting around for some of the books she had been reading earlier. Ryou's unexpected reaction to her wards had upset what little organization she had had previously—but there was only one title she was searching for at the moment anyway. She pulled her own scarf up over her mouth and nose again and tied it more tightly at the base of her neck without breathing. When it came to magic dust, many of the older books—the ones she would be looking at—were extremely leaky.

"Okay," she said aloud. "Now where did Ryou put that book?" _Perhaps Master Bakura suspects! So he sent Ryou to work with me, knowing that a soul would mess up my research. . ._

In the distance she heard the distinct boom of an azor mine and shivered reflexively. Her parents were situated in eastern Damasc, far from the fighting, but she had experienced the horrors of war firsthand during her initial years in Dahlia, when she had been apprenticed under Mahaado and when azor mines had gone off at a mind-numbing rate each night.

Thinking of her former master caused a pang. Mahaado had his eccentricities, but because of his prowess, his various quirks were forgiven. In that sense both he and Bakura were the same, but Mahaado, less gifted, had always been of a mature, studious nature. From what Mana had learned of Bakura, the silver fiend was more the prodigy-type, a devil-may-care whirlwind who could level an empire with a single wave of his fingers. Mahaado had also been poorer, having to rely on his meager savings and what few connections he had in the researching sphere—but Shaitan, the man had been brilliant. Bakura had fewer credentials—indeed, it was as though he had somehow manifested into being only after the large-scale war eighty years ago. His background was foggy and Mana had tried before to pry, but on all sides she only found dead-ends. Bakura, it seemed, would remain stubbornly enigmatic.

_Here we go._ She was on her hands and knees, poking through the books that had accumulated under the desk, doing her best not to manhandle the older copies.

_'Mana.' Mahaado's eyes were like two pieces of slate, inscrutable. She looked up from the book she had been reading. 'You've known only war all your life,' Mahaado went on, looking at his hands. 'I want you to know that things were different at one point—long before your birth or mine—but things were different. We know this difference. We feel it in the blood of our ancestors, which stirs in our own veins.'_

_She laughed. She was a petite translucent-skinned girl of sixteen and was entirely and conspicuously in love with him. 'I know this, Master Mahaado! You have told me many times.'_

_'Mana. . .' He sighed. 'You may say you know it. . .but in your mind, you can only know the panic—the fear of your parents—the azor mines that terrify the younger children each night.' He sat beside her on the floor, taking her hand in his own. 'You show so much promise—but I want you gone from this city, Mana. It's too dangerous. If I can prevent your death, then I shall. The only way I can protect you is to send you back to Damasc.'_

_Mana scowled, slamming her book shut abruptly. 'No,' she said, trying to make a logical argument. 'I won't leave you here. If I go, who will protect the younger children?'_

_He chuckled at her obstinacy. 'Well, I was planning on sending them back as well.'_

_'You would be lonely.'_

_'Yes, that's true.' He sighed again, morose. 'I want you to be safe. I want all of you to be safe. First and foremost—'_

_'What did Isis say to you?' Mana demanded. 'I know you had a meeting with her this afternoon. It had to be something serious for you to be so gloomy. None of it's true. That bat is an old fraud.'_

_Mahaado gave a crooked white smile. 'No. . .no. It was nothing that Isis said. I'm simply reflecting, in light of a dear colleague's death yesterday. I want to teach you, Mana. You're bright enough to understand the theory. Application is another thing entirely, but under my instruction. . .I know you could be great. But the danger is immense—and your parents want you back with them. I have no right to keep you here. No right whatsoever.'_

_'The fighting could just as easily move to Damasc!' Mana protested. 'And I—I want to stay. I'll write my parents. Send the little children home. I promise to study hard. But only if you teach me, Mahaado! I won't study for anyone else, you know that!' She flushed, her words reverberating inside the cramped study. 'Ah. . .'_

_Mahaado chuckled and ruffled her hair like an older brother would. 'That's right. You love only me. How could I forget?'_

_Mahaado_, Mana thought. _I'm doing this for you._ Mahaado had made it clear that he would never support a Forbidden like dead-raising. She remembered his face after his return from meeting with Isis—the sad, defeated eyes. No matter how he denied it she knew Isis had told him something about a vision. Mahaado had known his death was approaching. Mana had taken a vow earlier not to touch the forbidden arts—with her fingers crossed. She would resurrect Mahaado. Short of consulting with one who already knew and practiced the Forbidden, Bakura's extensive library on the ancient arts was the perfect way to research. "Where in haven is that book!"

_'They go insane, you know,'_ Mahaado had said, several months later. _'Those who practice the Forbiddens lose their minds. They plummet over the abyss. There is no saving them.' He continued before she could interrupt. 'Shh, I want you to hear this. It is said that those who are involved in the Forbiddens have entered a contract with some power deeper and older than what we exercise now. To break the contract is to risk your life and your eternal soul. Once you have made such a contract, you are bound to it for all of time.'_

Mana saw the familiar corner of the book she was searching for beneath a huge stack of tomes on the opposite side of the room. _Aha!_

Another mine boomed.

"Mana!" Bakura's cheery voice rang out from an unknown location. "We seem to have visitors—be a doll and answer the door, will you?"

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Mana unlocked the castle gate and pushed her head outside. "We're closed tonight—" she began, and then stopped in wonder as she felt the cold against her face. It was sleeting in Dahlia.

She moved to shut the door, but the man waiting beyond in the darkness put his foot in the door. "Wait," he said. He was squat and dressed in a tuxedo with tails—much like a penguin—with a black top-hat and a monocle. To his left and right were two other demons, both male—one tall and emaciated, the other of average height and grotesque weight—and behind them there were more gathered. The short man moved into the light given off by Mana's lamp, pushing the door open and coming into the castle foyer. Around him the storm was raging, but neither he nor any of his companions were wet.

Mana recognized his face from a recent news clipping. "You!" she exclaimed, feeling panicked.

"Good evening, Miss Mana," said the penguin-like man. He gestured at his four companions, who had followed him into the foyer, and smiled at her. The smile was slow and sick; Mana did her best to return it. "We are the Big Five."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

A/N: _Oh my goodness! It's been such a long time. I have to say again that I am so, so sorry for the delay. And I'm sorry to have ended the chapter this way as well, but the cliffy was necessary. School has ended for me. I am heading to an anime convention (AnimeNext! If you're going, please look for me!) next weekend, so I won't have much time to write then. However. . .I suppose the next update will be near the end of June, with not so much of a wait. Fingers crossed, okay?_

_I don't have that many notes this chapter, again. You know the myth of Demeter and Persephone, right? After eating some pomegranate seeds, Persephone was forced to stay in the underworld for a portion of the year. The circumstances are similar with Yuugi, although in his case eating demonic food only sped up his Falling process._

_Um, ibn-kalb means 'son of a dog' in Arabic. I'm pretty sure of that._

_Ah. . .so. That's all I had to say, I think. If there are any other questions about stuff used in this chapter, please ask me in a review or an email. . .I'll do my best to answer without giving too many spoilers. . ._

A/N:_ Thank you so much for being patient! The action picks up next chapter, I promise. The plot thickens! Yay! Haha._

**To All Reviewers:**

Hyacinthus: Aw. . .thank you. Yes, jumping between all these different characters is difficult. I think if I had more spare time I would have made two different stories that crossed into one another or something. . .despite myself, I really am liking the Jou-Kaiba dynamics in this story.

A lilmatchgirl: I love Jou in this story. I don't know. I tried to keep him as close to character as possible. . .but taking little deviations is quite fun. Hehe. Playboy Bakura is alright. Personally I'm not too happy about playboys. . .

ladywolfTerri: Oh, Ryou is going to be quite a challenge. He's not going to be easy if I can help it! Go Ryou! Down with manwhores! Er. . .I got carried away. . ._(sweatdrop)_ Ahem. Thank you! I guess you were happy to see a new chapter updated, then?

OBSESSED Uber Rei: Greetings? Oh dear. . .it's been so long I can't remember what you're talking about! I'll have to go and look it over soon-ish.

Lord Scribbles: Don't die! Mana is on her way to learning necromancy. Like I said earlier, I do love the chemistry between Jou, Kaiba, and Otogi in this story. It amuses me so much to write about them, and it makes me sad that I can't focus more on their characters. I'm having a hard enough time keeping this story centered on Ryou and Bakura!

Anonymous: Disturbing is good, my friend.

Anime Crazed: Bless. I can't answer your question! Too many spoilers! Of course that was a spoiler within itself. . .well, you'll just have to wait and find out, unfortunately.

Ragna01: Was this chappie equally fun?

Downtrodded: Another smutty scene. Sorry I was so late writing it though!

Evil Chibi Malik: The next chapter is much more lively than Faust6. This was really just a transition chapter. I didn't like writing it so much. Lucibast is a nice kitty, but I like Medusa more. She reminds me of my friend's cat Jack, who is the most awesome cat to ever inhabit this earth. (Not as good as Hayley, my friend says.) However, Jack is afraid of me. _(saddened)_

Misori chan: Heehee, I believe Ryou is the only one for Bakura too. Don't worry, in this story he definitely will be.

Repmet: Have I made you happy? I think the MaixKeith in this story is actually my favorite pairing. . .bizarre as that sounds.

hato-chan: Whee! Yay! Thank you.

Chelley Angel: School is gone! I can update more often. I hope. Fingers crossed on that. Thanks for being patient with me, though.

Carmen-Nemrac: Thanks!

Lil-Riter: 127 pages now, actually. Thanks. . .I'm glad you like this story so much.

MillenniumDreamer: I'm afraid this update wasn't quite as long as I'd wanted it to be. Like I said, it's a filler, and I hate writing fillers. I'm eager to begin chapter seven—lots of action!

BishounenzAngel: Wow, really? Haha. . .I'm really flattered!

Daje Elle Namte: O my goodness. This has to be one of the longest reviews I've ever gotten. _(happy)_ Ah. . .for the moment, I'm not so sure about having a beta-reader. I know I usually have several typos, but I plan to go back and fix them in one fell swoop. . .um, if I change my mind, will you beta for me? (Yes, by the way. Shaitan is the title of the King of all demons. Heehee.) Thank you!

Liviana: I love Jou in this story!I'm having fun messing with his mind too. _(hangs head)_ I'm an awful, evil person. . .

Yami Hitokiri: I want Yukari to myself too! Um. . .I mean. Ryou wants Bakura to himself! And he will get him. Eventually. After a long time. Yea. _(blink blink)_

Bourei no Hikari: Haha, Otogi can do anything with his dice, including beating up angels. Did Bakura meow at all this chapter? I started writing it so long ago that I've forgotten. Yea, I think I came on too strongly with that God bit. . .I'll try to redeem myself! Make him seem less unforgiving. . .I don't want the angels to seem like "the bad guys" but it's turning out that way. . .I'll have to remedy that as well. Aw, you forgot about our Crown Prince! He's going to be disappointed. . .oh well. Sorry, Yams-chan. You're not in the spotlight in this story.

Elle-Fatex-: Bakura is odd and awesome. Hehe. Malik will escape. Eventually. After slight hardship. And pain. Et cetera. . .hahaha, I feel evil right now.

EternityPaopu: Do you? _(excited)_ I have fans! Haha. . .thanks!

The Sabbit: Goodness. Don't go to bed so late. . .'tis not good for you. Ah! I've said this so many times now but I really do love the Jou-Kaiba-Otogi interaction!

maurelle: Of course. Because I am simply amazing. _(preens)_

inarae: Thank you!

Happiness's Deceit: They're going to have a nice happy life. Eventually. MWA HA HA HA!

Numia: oo Wow. . .thank you! I'm really flattered. Um. . .it's really not that great. Have you read works by Edmondia Dantes, Sailor Comet, and Fate VII? Haha, I'm older than someone. I'm in 10th grade, myself.

DojomistressAmbychan: Yes, you're right. My friend is always correcting me on that. However I found another word that meant fairy tale (that being "otogibanashi") and I was going to use it for another fic that I ended up discarding. Since Otogi's name is. . .well, Otogi. . .it was convenient. Haha, did you like this chapter title? Not quite sodomy. . .

Lady Shriannan Santrea: Hehehe, I can't tell you if his mother was an angel or not. But if you keep reading you should find out soon-ish. . .maybe chapter ten. Or eleven. Yes, the MaixKeith is one of my favorite pairings, even though it's not highlighted much in this story.

_Next chapter:_

_Oh man, the Big Five! What do they want? And what's going to happen to Yuugi? Jou doesn't look so good either. . .what about Malik and Marikku? Next time, in Faust7!_

_Once again. . .thank you!_

_ryuujitsu & co._

_p.s. if there were many typos this chapter, I'm quite sorry. I wanted to get it up as soon as possible and only proofread it once._


	7. patched old cloak

FAUST  
yuugiou fanfiction  
ryuujitsu & co.  
chapter seven: patched old cloak

Disclaimer: Saying we own Yuugiou is like saying spiders are pink! And they're not. How sad. . .

A/N: _Um. . .I'm a month late. Sorry. The chapters aren't that long, are they? Alright! But now that we're done with that tranny chapter (transition. . .I mean transition chapter!) we can move on to the action! Well, I hope you like this chapter! It was a lot of fun to write. (But we went on vacation halfway through it and when I got back I forgot what I wanted to write. . .sorry! That's why it took so long.)_

_Aw. . .I was at Anime Next hoping to meet some of my readers. . .(sweatdrop) But I talked to no one. Anyway, if any of you saw a tall boy with long auburn hair in a black coat and a girly boy with short, wavy, dark hair wearing the union jack. . .and you saw the girl with them (in a white kitty hat), then you saw me. I really wanted to meet some people from fanfiction! Oh well. There's always next year, I suppose. And I'm going to be at Otakon, cosplaying as L. . .look for me! _

_Note: My goodness! The Big Five were really hard to dig up amongst all those episodes. But I figured out who they are, so that's my little accomplishment for this fic. Ahem. They are Crump, the penguin; Gansley, the swamp man; Johnson, the judge; Leichter, who fought Kaiba; and Nezbitt from Mechanical Mayhem._

ITFTC:

"You! I wanna take you to a KAIBA!"

--TRT-sama

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

"Master Bakura?" Mana was surprised by the steady quality of her voice—inwardly, she felt like jelly. "The Big Five are here to see you."

Bakura was lying on the floor, dangling a ball of black yarn above his cats' heads. Medusa seemed to be asleep, but Lucifer was batting at the yarn furiously. Bakura gave no sign that he had heard. Slowly and deliberately, he pocketed the yarn (Lucifer darted into his cloak pocket after it) and gave Medusa a pat on the belly before straightening. Then he turned.

"Meow. . .Nezbitt," he said, completely overlooking short demon in the front and addressing the gangly character in the back of the group. "To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"

The demon in the tuxedo cleared his throat loudly. "_Ahem_. Allow me to make our introduction—"

"I know who you are," said Bakura softly, eyes glowing like coals.

"—we are The Big Five," continued the penguin-like demon as though there had been no interruption. "At the moment, we are also representing the Remaining Seven." He harrumphed again and smiled his sickly smile. "I am Crump."

Bakura was on his feet facing them, the tilt of his chin giving his stance an arrogant feel. At face value he appeared entirely calm, but Mana could see the telltale twitch in the silver fiend's temple and the twin spots of scarlet on either side of his dead white face. "Mana," he said quietly, not looking at her. "Be a doll and keep an eye on ANKH for me. Take Medusa with you. Thank you, poppet."

Mana tugged at the scruff of the huge cat's neck. She made a hasty bow to the Big Five, and then to her master before slipping out of the room, her heart thundering in her ears.

The Twelve used to refer to Shaitan's Council, a group made of the elite demonic spellcasters and intellectuals of the time at the demon king's beck and call. Now, in the absence of a ruling Shaitan, they were tacitly running the underworld. There were three factions—the Twelve, who favored raising one of their own as the next Shaitan; the supporters of Shaitan's distant relative; and yet a third group who wanted to name a high-caste noble as the next Shaitan. Power had shifted almost daily in the chaos, but as of a few months earlier, the Twelve had found their footing with a mysterious bargaining chip, effectively eliminating one party of their adversaries. The current war was between supporters of the Twelve and those who wanted to raise a noble to position of demon king. Divided into two sections—the Big Five, essentially what one would call minions; and the Seven, the actual elite—the Twelve was, at the moment, the reigning power of the land.

_The Big Five—_here_—what do they want with Master Bakura?_

She took Medusa up to the minaret and locked the cat in with a smart flick of her wrist, using another spell to silence the indignant yowling. Mana crept back to listen by the now closed door of Bakura's study.

As much as she wanted to be away from the Five, she had a feeling that her master would be needing her tonight.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

The patches of Shadrach that Jou could see through his dying vision reminded him of a ghost town in an old western. In the distance the lava flows were still very visible, but far from being hot and humid, Shadrach was dry as bone. There seemed to be more dust than air, the entire land parched by the heat of the volcanoes. Here and there fiery green weeds sprang up from the crevices of the cracked ground. The vampire's arms were light around him, but they carried his body firmly and seemed to know exactly where to hold him to prevent pain.

"Kaiba," said Otogi suddenly. "Shadrach belongs to the Twelve, doesn't it? It's a bit dangerous for you to come here, isn't it?"

The ice demon whirled. "You're very well informed for someone who has spent the past four centuries in the mundane world," he snarled, white to the lips. "What else do you know about me?"

The vampire laughed daintily. "Oh no," he said quickly, all but fluttering. "I'm afraid I've exhausted my 'limitless' supply of knowledge. Please don't get your panties in such a horrendous knot, Kaiba-boy. Since the boy is in your protection, I'll have to look after you to ensure _his_ safety, won't I? So I ask you again—it's a bad idea for you to come here, isn't it?"

"Yes." At first Jou had thought that Kaiba was pissed to the point of further speech—and then he realized that Kaiba, cool and collected Kaiba, was _nervous_.

_That means we're really fucked._

"Hey, you," said Otogi suddenly, his olive green eyes appearing bare centimeters from Jou's head. "Go to sleep and stop thinking before you hurt yourself. Oh. That's not what it was supposed to sound like."

Jou tried to scowl and winced as his dry lower lip split open. "Wa. . .ter," he croaked.

"Kid, you don't need water, you need some medicine," said the vampire, scratching him behind the ears as though Jou was some overgrown dog. "I think that angel liquefied your innards when he punched you. Now shut your mouth and get some rest. I don't want to hear another word from you until we fix up your insides, got it, puppy?

"What are we going to do?" asked Otogi, turning now to Kaiba. "I'm technically a mundane mistake. . .and I shouldn't be down here. And you—you're a wanted man in both the upperworld and the underworld. You can't just walk into the pharmacy and yell at the apothecary to give you something for internal bleeding. I mean, really. That's just not how things are done."

Kaiba frowned at him. "If you were expecting me to execute this in your flamingly homosexual style, then I will have to remind you that I specialize in _ice_. Keep an eye on the dog. If you even touch a drop of his blood—"

He snapped his fingers and was gone. The warning hung in the air after him, frigid as a snowstorm.

"Ch," said Otogi, setting Jou down gently and then flopping down beside the boy. "Damned sensitive type, that one. Ahhh. I hate the sun. Thankfully it seems that only mundane sunlight can burn me to a crisp. Which I have learned from experience, and it was not pleasant. So, kid. You sleeping like you're supposed to be?" He ruffled Jou's hair. "Hm? Eh? Eh?"

_Leave me the fuck alone_. Jou felt feverish. Every time he drew a breath something whispered faintly within his chest and blood gurgled in his throat.

"Ah. . ." Otogi lay back, stretching himself out under the sun. "It feels good to be out in the sun, even if you're going to burn. I haven't done this in years—centuries, even." He raised a bleached hand in front of his face. "I'm so pale! I could do with a tan. Actually, most of these demonic types could use a tan too. Always so damn _white_, these guys, and so cold. Like statues. I thought I taught that kid some good tricks, but he isn't going to last more'n a week down here. I have to find him, and fast. You're my way in too, you know that? If you die, then I can't find this kid I'm looking for. Kaiba needs you even if he's not going to say it, so what I don't get is why he keeps dragging you all over the place. It's like he's trying to get you killed on purpose. Sheesh. Ahh, it's so warm. . ." He closed his eyes. "You still listening, pup?"

"Mrrfph. . .?" Jou had meant to ask, _Do you ever shut up?_, but it had gotten lodged somewhere beneath his breastbone. Kaiba's forbidding silence would actually be a relief when the demon returned.

"Good, good." Otogi yawned. "So when we blow this joint, we're going to a place called Dahlia, which would be bad normally, except for this one thing. And this thing that sucks about this is that Dahlia is where people go 'explode-y' left and right. It's a civil war, y'see? And everyone's trying to kill everyone else. . ."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

"Argh!" Malik dove to the right to avoid the column of fire that singed his left cheek and earlobe. The butcher knife flew out of his hands and clattered away into the relative darkness. He rolled on the ground, slapping frantically at his smoldering shift. "Damn it, Marikku! Fucking _aim_ next time!"

The apparition looked up from where he was engaged in hand-to-hand combat with Croquet and had the grace to appear sheepish. "Sorry."

Marikku's sending had been doing a lovely job of subduing various bottomless pits, demon monsters, and other such hazardous castle traps, until they had come crashing into Pegasus' personal security guards on the fifth floor—Croquet and Kero. Croquet, the wizened, green-bearded sorcerer, had slotted out Marikku's hologram as his opponent, while Kero, the muscle-head, had gone after Malik in hopes of tackling him. Malik, of course, had solved that problem by falling to the floor—and "Maybe I wouldn't have fallen if your aim wasn't so fucking bad!" the blonde screamed, giving Kero a hard kick to the jaw and floundering to get back on his feet.

"I said I was sorry!" yelled Marikku, catching Croquet's wrist before the sorcerer could send a shadow-ball into his face, deflecting the mass of dark energy to the right wall of the castle—and straight into Malik.

Malik barely dodged the shadow ball and tripped over the debris it left in its wake. "_Damn it_, Marikku!"

Marikku simply scowled and returned his attention to Croquet. Sometime in their flight down the stairs from the guards Malik had dropped the mirror, and his power was waning with the increased distance, but it wasn't as though they could just backtrack up the stairs and fetch it, now was it. Croquet's hits were getting more accurate and Marikku's less so, but there was a plus to all the negatives—with each jolt of magic, more alcohol was being forced out of his system. He would be sober soon, without a doubt, and then he could handle things his own way. Scrambling back from another shadow-ball, Marikku sent an anxious glance at Malik, who was lying on the floor. The boy was also holding out his hands and smirking like he knew how to use them.

_Chit,_ thought Marikku in a fond sort of panic, _be fucking careful. I don't know what I'd do if something happened to you now._

Kero roared like a caged bear and brought his fist smashing downwards. He had been aiming for Malik's back as the boy lay sprawled on the floor, but Malik had managed to torque his body out of the way, taking the blow instead on his thigh. His entire leg numbing around a white-hot center of pain, Malik lurched unsteadily to his feet and took up a fighter's stance, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "C'mon, babe," he said to Kero, a challenging glint bright in his eye. "Let's do this."

"Who are you?" Croquet demanded. The sorcerer always had one hand covering his wiry body, ready to block.

Marikku grinned savagely at him, summoning up a sun-flare between his palms. "Marikku Ishtal," he said, "and you'll do well to remember it. You are—?"

"Croquet," said the sorcerer. "But you already knew that."

"That I did," Marikku said. There had been a momentary lull in their struggle, for which he was glad. Croquet, as though sensing that distance from the stairwell would harm the other demon, had gradually forced him further and further down the hallway. Marikku had been edging up slowly in the opposite direction, building up his energy. "Hey," he said rather confidentially, "is it strange, working for Pegsy? I hear he's a little eccentr—"

"What faction do you work for?" said Croquet, drawing his free arm back to counteract Marikku's sun-flare.

"Faction?" said Marikku, blinking.

"You must work for some faction. What is it, then? Do you support the blood relative, or are you for the Twelve?"

"Um," said Marikku, igniting another sun-flare into his palm and slamming it directly into Croquet's face, temporarily blinding the other as he skirted closer to the mirror lying on the floor. The flare instantly brightened, and Croquet, who was only just opening his eyes, caught the full brunt of the glare. "If you're looking at it that way, Mister, then I'm for myself."

Back by the ruined wall, Malik had his hands full. _If only I wasn't transparent._ It would have been a bit easier if he'd been able to use some of his stronger moves. But he had fought larger men before as a child, and to him it was all a matter of dodging the heavier punches, then giving his opponent a few evanescent taps. The technique was working. With each hit that Malik scored, Kero's aggravation increased. Finally, Malik saw an opening and darted straight into Kero's face to poke the demon's nose, laughing. His temper skyrocketing, the demon charged Malik like a wounded bull, abandoning all defenses for the sake of squashing the boy. Malik danced nimbly away, into the shadows.

_All the same, one slip and that's the end of my pretty face._

Naturally, it was at that moment that he slipped, falling to all fours, his hands sweeping across the ground to prevent another fall. Kero saw his chance and drove down at the boy, the cords in his neck taut and bulging with the force of his punch. "_Oh, fuck_—!"

"Malik!" screamed Marikku, spinning around with the knowledge that he would be too late.

There was a wet, sick sound—and Kero jerked back, bellowing with pain. He was clutching his right fist, which was now sporting a thick bloodied gash across the knuckles.

Malik held the butcher knife with both hands, smirking. "Psych."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

"Perhaps I should give the reason for our visit," began Crump, with as much grandeur as he could muster into his stumpy body. "You are no doubt surprised—and that is the most common reaction, as found from statistics. . ."

Bakura was standing stock still in the center of the cluttered study, feet apart, knees bent, arms taut by his sides. Mana, who had been expecting the usual coquettish pose, one hand on the desk, the other on a jutting hip, was surprised to see the relative _seriousness _of her master's stance. The Big Five were grouped awkwardly around the doorway, as though they did not want to venture any closer to Bakura—were they afraid of him, or simply contemptuous? It was hard to tell from the back. Mana rather wished they would move forward; they were blocking her view.

"I often find that statistics hide the more important details," said Bakura cheerily. "Think of them like women's undergarments—it's what's under them that we want, not the cute lacy exterior. Meow, don't you think so, Johnson?" He looked pointedly over Crump's head at the spectacled, goblin-eared individual standing near Gansley.

Crump cleared his throat loudly. "Ahrrrrm. As I was saying. This is no mere social visit—as you may have gathered. In fact, we are—"

"Mr. Crump," said Leichter, stepping out from the shadows. A demon of average height and build, his sole distinguishing features were in his face. Sharply angled eyebrows, nose, and chin made his visage an immense collection of Vs, accented by the dun-colored goatee that hid his throat from view. "I'm afraid I will have to interrupt you. We are, after all, on a strict schedule." Crump blinked, made to protest, and then, hemming and haaing profusely, moved back into the group.

"Bakura," said Leichter, addressing the silver fiend now. "It has come to the attention of the Council that the Crown Prince may be residing in Dahlia."

"Still trying to have him murdered, are you?" said Bakura carelessly, and the Big Five flinched at his words.

"A little subtlety might do you good, Bak—"

"Hiding in Dahlia?" Bakura ignored Nezbitt's outburst. The spots of red on either side of his face were mottling to purple. "Yes, of course. Open your eyes! There are azor mines going off every night. There is looting, there is murder—Dahlia has become a city of death. I have no admiration for the boy, but he is of the two noblest lines of blood to exist in our three worlds! Good blood doesn't breed idiots, Leichter. Why would he come here? To seek shelter with a demon who wants nothing better than to slit his pubescent throat for all the troubles he has caused? _Yes, of course_, Leichter!" His voice was thick with sarcasm. "A likely possibility from the recesses of your brilliant mind, thank you."

"Be civil," growled Nezbitt. "You are in the presence of the Big Five."

"You belittle me," said Bakura with a dark smile, his voice hoarse. "I am in the presence of five court jesters—five marionettes dangling from the fingers of the Council. You forget whose territory this is. I was under the impression that after the last war, I was _not to be troubled_ for any reason. I see you've broken that agreement."

"Agreements made by the past Shaitan—bless the traitor—are no longer considered valid by any court or Council!" said Nezbitt, practically slavering now. Bakura met his furious gaze with his own gleaming black one (Mana saw that his eyes had indeed darkened to pitch violet) and Nezbitt at length looked away.

"Now, don't be angry, Bakura" said Johnson anxiously, "but we've heard from reliable sources that the Crown Prince probably _did_ make contact with you a few weeks ago—"

"—and if he did, then I must have stewed his tender infantile flesh and buried his bones under the welcome mat—"

"We know you are not well," said Leichter softly—maliciously. "There were initial difficulties tracking you down after the last war, and I must congratulate you on your strategy. Hiding right in front of our noses, in plain view! You knew we were preoccupied with our own affairs, that we are not the generation to go—" here he sniffed disdainfully "—'clubbing.' Yet as soon as we were tipped off, it was easy to hone in on the magic leaking from your castle. It draws demons to it naturally and repels the azor explosions, yes? That's why you have been so successful even during a time of war. But while the common demon cannot sense the difference between an external magic-pull and the feelings of their own mind. . ._we can_." He dropped the bomb. "Tell me, _Bekhara_. You died that day—so why do you stand before us, decidedly unhealthy, but alive?"

Silence. Mana strangled her gasp, pressing both hands to her mouth, her mind racing over volumes and volumes of demonic history. _Bekhara! The berserker who destroyed the angelic legions eighty years ago! But there's no way. . .he's been dead so long!_

Bakura seemed to stagger and straighten in the same moment. "Perhaps I came back from the dead, Leichter," he snapped. "You know it's possible."

Mana's mind was reeling. _He's done it. How!_

"Or I might just be a distant relative," Bakura continued, suddenly lighthearted. "You know, a sort of descendant."

In the second that Mana blinked—no, she was certain she had not closed her eyes for a moment—the silver fiend's arms blurred; all at once Bakura's white spidery hands were extended towards the Big Five, his eyes wide and glittering the brightest, bloodiest red Mana had ever seen. There was power there, ancient and cloying, being drawn from every crevice of the castle walls; Bakura opened his arms wide, the patched cloak fluttering as though in an invisible storm. "_I haven't killed in eighty years,_" he said, and when he spoke the words were not demonic—something else, something older—it struck to their hearts and not their ears. "_Feel honored!_"

A man, corpulent and heavy-jawed, shoved desperately past Mana, shuffling into the room. "Gansley!" Mana whispered, barely able to hear herself. _How could I have missed him? When did he separate from the rest of the group? _She counted again hastily and realized that there had only been _Four_ of the Big Five in the room at the time—had Bakura noticed?

"_Any last words?_" breathed Bakura, and the magic exploded from his hands, tearing outwards in one immense blast.

Mana's mind went entirely blank in that moment. There was a brilliant flare of light and the seven silhouettes in the room were illuminated—seven?—and she screamed, expecting at any moment to be knocked back into the wall, to be torn apart by whatever it was that Bakura had summoned. _Mahaado!_

With a roar of unseen wind, the shockwave collapsed in on itself, sucking back in to a pin point—and then, nothing.

As the sound died away, Mana realized she was still screaming and bit down hard on her lip. Eyes watering, she squinted into the study. _What happened? Why aren't we dust? Bakura. . .?_ The Big Five had crowded far into the doorway, and she was eye-level with Nezbitt's broad back. Only Crump was turned to the side, and his mouth was open as if he, too, had been yelling. Mana could not see the object they were all ringed around, but she registered the betrayal in Bakura's eyes. Then Leichter shifted, and Mana could see.

_Sara_.

The grave faerie was standing neatly in her child's frock, her eyes blank with dismay. It looked as if she had just received the full force of Bakura's attack, or counteracted it in some way, no matter how unwillingly. Gansley had a firm hold on her shoulders. Now all of the Big Five were smirking, their faces showing nothing but smug relief.

Bakura's hands were back at his sides as though they had never left. "Sara," he rasped. "No, she's mine. Give her back to me. Sara."

The corners of his mouth were red with blood; it dripped from his nose, his eyes. As Mana watched, horrified, Bakura held out his arms. "Sara—" He coughed; blood dribbled past his lips and down his chin. "Give her to me! Sara—I paid good money for her!" His voice rose into a shriek. "Shaitan bless you all! _Give me my Sara! _Let her go; she's mine. Sara. . ." Something gurgled audibly in his chest.

_"Mana. Mana, run!"_ _Mahaado lay on the ground, clutching at his stomach where blood was blossoming through his robes. It was dark and she could only see the blood as a blackened stain spreading across the floor. He was trying to wipe the brown smears away from his mouth; he knew how much it frightened her. There were looters in the distance, breaking the windows, coming—the children! Barricaded in the nursery. Her gaze was fixed on her dying master. Mahaado had forced on a smile and the expression only made the scene more grotesque. "Go quickly; get help—Mana. Mana, my darling—"_

Her breath was coming in short gasps. Tears quivered on her cheeks, obscuring her vision. "I love you, Mahaado," said Mana, staring unseeingly at Bakura's failing body. _He lay on the ground clutching his stomach the blood was everywhere the children were dead dying too late someone help _

"Mahaado!" Sobbing, barely able to breathe now, she staggered down the hall, groping in front of her in a blind terror. "Don't die don't die don't die don't die don't die don't die don't die—"

_someone help_

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

"Please tell me that's our welcoming party," said Otogi, eyeing the rather violent crowd of demons swarming in the distance. Jounouchi's head was in his lap; the boy was staring off into space with an increasingly other-worldly gaze in his brown eyes. Definitely not a good sign. "Where's the medicine?"

Kaiba tossed the vampire something that closely resembled a giant orange leek. "I gave up on subtlety. What you see is the result."

"I was afraid of that," said Otogi. He looked at the leek. "What do I do with this?"

The ice demon was already tugging at the collar of his business suit. He tilted his head to the side and gestured at his jugular. "We need to have a blood transfusion, and, conveniently, you're a vampire. Make it fast; no theatrics."

Otogi's eyes sparkled. "Ooh la la," he said, already on his feet and beckoning with his arms. "Come here, my precious. Don't worry," he hummed into the nape of Kaiba's neck, "I'll make this _good_." He pushed himself onto his toes and cupped the side of the demon's face like he would a sweetheart's, all but cooing with pleasure. Otogi pressed a kiss to the pale long throat; for a moment, his dead lips lingered and then they were replaced with a tentative papery lick, and another. No saliva.

Kaiba hissed impatiently and nudged the vampire with his toe. "Hsst. Hurry up."

"Ch!" said Otogi. "You living ice cube, you. . ." And he opened his mouth wide and bit, grinning as Kaiba gasped reflexively.

It was exactly like human blood, he decided, utterly disappointed. Granted it did seem somewhat richer—think two percent milk as compared to skim—and much cooler. _Heh. Is that a hint of minty freshness?_ He snuck a little more than he was supposed to and swallowed several times, finally pulling away with a good quantity of demonic blood under his tongue. Otogi rubbed at his lips and saw that Kaiba was looking breathless, not to mention slightly cross-eyed. Wordlessly, the demon unpeeled the orange leek (it had been a package all along) and indicated that Otogi should ingest the yellow powder that was inside. He sat down heavily, his pupils dilated.

Otogi swirled the powder around with the blood in his mouth. _Okay, goodbye, minty freshness. Gourmet meal, this is not. _

Kaiba, still appearing disoriented, gestured at Jou, whose eyes were beginning to dim. "B. . .bite him," said the demon vaguely, one hand going up to his neck. "You took too much. . .you. . .never should have trusted. . .argh. Fucking vampire."

Cradling the flaxen head in his arms, Otogi crossed his fingers mentally. _Hope this works. _He felt around until he felt the flickering pulse and bit in, regurgitating Kaiba's blood into the boy's jugular even as Jou's blood poured out. As most vampire bites mysteriously do, the wound sealed on its own.

"And now we wait," announced Otogi as grandly as he could while wiping blood from his chin.

"Fuck you," said Kaiba tiredly, turning his face away from the sun.

Within a heartbeat he was back on his feet and the sun was glittering on the sheet of ice that suddenly encased his body. The demon who was driving the axe down at his head never had a chance to cry out; he was frozen and shattered in seconds. The next, coming with a wicked-looking crossbow, met the same fate. Kaiba, panting and rapidly melting, sent a withered glance at Otogi. _How about some help here?_ said his raised eyebrow.

Otogi sighed and got to his feet. He intercepted a demon aiming for Kaiba's back and, grabbing the unfortunate fiend by the arm, began using him as a sort of makeshift scythe against the approaching crowd. "Oh, a pitchfork!" he crowed, moving out of the way of said weapon. "Isn't that _quaint_."

There was a crackle of movement beside him and Kaiba was lunging forward, his right fist closed firmly around what seemed to be an incredibly large icicle.

"You weren't honestly expecting me to know only one spell, were you?" he said, and scowled.

"It's Kaiba!" howled a demon with a ratty appearance, and the throngs surged closer. "Alive or dead, he's wanted like ice on a hot day, that un is!"

Kaiba paused and made an elegant leg. "My adoring subjects," he said glacially.

Otogi dropped the demon that he had been swinging around and grabbed another, a plump demoness wielding a rolling pin. He twisted her head to the side and buried his fangs somewhere between her three chins, reemerging a minute later with a grimace. "Not exactly 'mm, mm, good,'" he said, and threw the body into the pack, managing to knock down another two demons in the process. "Ever drink lard? Ew. You know, Kaiba-boy, if we end up having to fight every single town we travel to, I might go off on my own!"

"Good," grunted Kaiba.

"A vampire!" shouted one of the men, running forward and menacing Otogi with a wooden staff. "Get her!"

"_Excuse_ me?" gasped Otogi, blinking and suddenly pink in the face. He dodged the whirling staff in a move reminiscent of Matrix. "Do I need to drop my pants? I'm a bloodsucker, not a transsexual!"

Kaiba snorted.

"That's enough from you, Kaiba-boy!" snapped the vampire, irate. "And I'll have you know—whoa! Okay, take it easy there." He danced back from the stake and felt another jabbing him from the back; small razor-sized wood chips were being hurled from every direction. _What the fuck, they're even throwing splinters at me. _"Alright, so I see that everyone here has taken their Vampire Hunting 101 course. Um. Good job! Congratulations. Now, would it do any good to appeal to your more humane instincts? Ow! I guess not. Kaiba! Some help here!"

And then he was lying on the ground, pinned down beneath a huffing demonic housewife who was brandishing the sharpest, nastiest looking piece of wood he had ever seen. "Sorry," she seemed to be saying. "But I still don't see why you were doing Eshe-fatima at the same time. Don't you think I'm the tastier one?"

_This is the end, then. Malik—_

The housewife gave a hoarse yelp and her aging face vanished out of his eyes. Jou was grinning down at him, happy and whole, dangling the shrieking demoness by the strings of her apron. "Hi there," he said. "Getting some action, are you?"

"Mutt," said Kaiba, absently reaching out to him.

He sounded so relieved that later Jounouchi would insist he had hallucinated the entire incident.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Ryou, sweeping a corridor on a lower floor, felt the shudder in the ankh a split second before the wards around the castle began collapsing one by one. A sharp pain was beginning in his chest directly beneath the ankh, accompanied by the urge to cough. He dropped the broom and gagged into his hands; when he examined them in the torchlight, he could see they were flecked with blood. _Maybe I shouldn't have eaten that muffin. . ._ Somewhere below him he could hear the panicked stomp of feet, entirely different from the sounds of reveling earlier.

There was a noise and Jin-Ho appeared at the door, her face white. "Ryou!" she said urgently, tearing off her uniform. "Something's happened—a demon stole Sara—quick, while they're distracted—let's escape!"

"_Stole_—escape?" said Ryou stupidly. "What about Sara?"

"Forget Sara!" shouted Jin-Ho, eyes blazing. She seized his arm and tugged. "It's too late to do anything about her. Now's your chance to get out of here! _Come with me!_" There was a clatter somewhere on the staircase; someone was coming. In the darkness, Jin-Ho's eyes were flicking from Ryou to the stairs to the door and back. Her mouth was wavering and uncertain. She was sweating. "Come with me, Ryou," she said, softening her tone. "The others are coming too. Don't tell me you honestly want to stay in hell forever! Let's go while we have the chance." She took in his blank look and her gaze hardened. "It's Bakura, isn't it! Ryou, don't be stupid. Please don't be stupid! He's a _demon_. He's scum!"

"Let go of me, Jin-Ho." And Ryou thought of the red eyes and the soft pink mouth. _'Meow, soul-boy.'_ "I won't say where you've gone. Just go now, please."

She looked as though she was going to try to drag him forcibly from the area. The clattering on the staircase crescendoed; they could see the beginning of a ghostly figure stumbling down. Jin-Ho's mouth set. She all but flung Ryou's arm away from her.

"Fine!" she snapped, sniffling a little. "But you've made your choice. I hope you rot here!" She spun around and dashed out the door.

"Goodbye, Jin-Ho." Ryou stared after her. _What's going on?_

The answer came almost immediately. "_Someone help—_" The demoness tripped on the last step and went sprawling into the corridor. She did not get up.

Ryou hurried to her side and helped her to stand. She felt entirely limp in his hands, like a mannequin. Gently, he propped her up against the wall. Her face held a purple tinge and her blue eyes were wide with fright. Tears were sliding down at a constant rate, though she never uttered a sound. Her shift was torn in several places and her arms and forehead were bruised, as though she had run indiscriminately into the walls in her flight down the stairs. The golden hair was in complete disarray. It was Mana. "Mana! Mana-doll, what's wrong? What happened?"

She hiccupped and her eyes slowly focused at his collarbone. ". . .Ryou?"

"Yes," he crooned, feeling a sudden and irrational calm. "Tell Ryou what's wrong, sweetheart. Is it Bakura? Is he in trouble?"

She gave a mute nod.

Ryou felt like a thick fog had descended around them. He released the demoness and she slid down until she was crouching against the wall. "Mana, sweetheart," he said, squatting in front of her and clasping her clammy translucent hands in his own, "I'm going to go upstairs to find Bakura. Don't go anywhere."

"Master Mahaado is dying," she whispered, her voice raw. "There's so much blood." And then she started to cry in earnest, in huge, gulping sobs, grinding her fists into her eyes like a small child.

Ryou turned and sprinted up the stairs.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

He took the steps three or four at a time, his breathing harsh in his ears. Mana's sobbing billowed upward, filling the winding stairwell with eerie echoes. His thoughts were jumbled, nearly frantic. At some point he knew he had tripped and gone flying, but he was up on his feet in a matter of seconds, and—when had he fallen, anyway? Bakura was in trouble; there was no time to fall. There was almost a tug in his body, a constriction in his chest, something that demanded that he run faster, faster, Bakura wasn't going to wait all day, Bakura didn't have that much time left, _he had to be closer to Bakura_.

Mana's voice was fading away—he hadn't expected her to lose her head in a bad situation, but then again, life was full of surprises wasn't it and why was he standing there contemplating surprises?

The steps seemed like they would continue ad infinitum. He was clawing at the wall now, trying to propel himself forward with his arms. Speed was good. He fell yet again, fell _hard_ and felt his lip split open, and when he got up he had given up on jumping; conventional running now, arms churning at the sides, his legs were burning but he wasn't tired at all, faster, faster, faster, _Bakura_.

Dimly he wondered why he was so concerned; this was, after all, his master and enslaver and the initiator of much unwanted—but was it truly _unwanted?_—attention, and a demon—

_I'm never going to make it! Damn these endless winding staircases!_

He hit the top of the stairs at an unexpected moment and teetered precariously backwards, but did not fall. The pull in his chest had extended, growing into a monstrous need to be nearer, from his forehead to his fingertips to his ankles. It was as if his body had suddenly gone on autopilot; his legs headed for the study without any thought needed. He could hear Medusa yowling in the distance—he reached the door—he kicked it open—

"Bakura!"

There were five smiling men standing there and one of them was holding Sara, who had fainted dead away, but he didn't give them a second glance—_oh my god_ and there was no pain as he thought it—

He saw the blood first, welling from under the fingernails and forming delicate, henna-like patterns on the silver fiend's fingertips. Bakura lay as if he had crumpled where he had been standing—first falling to his knees and then collapsing headlong into the floor. His head was turned awkwardly to the side, facing Ryou, and the half-lidded eyes were rapidly dimming, turning brown like the drying blood caked in his eyelashes and on his face. His arms were at his sides; a crimson-smeared finger twitched and spasmed. There was blood pooled around him, seeping into his hair, and some of the red stuff still dripped from a corner of his mouth. It looked as though something inside him had given way and exploded, tearing his innards to shreds.

Ryou realized he was crying, felt the salty wet tears slipping down his face. "Bakura," he said. He turned to the men. "You did this," he said. "You did this to him."

The closest one, whose smile was beginning to falter, said simply, "Yes."

A bizarre spluttering noise startled all of them. Ryou, feeling as if he was moving through syrup, pivoted in time to see the white cat, no larger than a fist and now drenched in his master's blood, sliding out of a pocket of the patched cloak. Lucifer-Bastet huddled by Bakura's body, hacking desperately.

Bakura's eyes flickered. "S. . .ara. . ."

Ryou stepped closer and picked up the cat, cradling it close to his body. "You sons of bitches," he said clearly, addressing the men. Lucifer-Bastet opened his mouth as though he were yawning. Ryou said, "Give me Sara."

The fireball exploded from the little cat's mouth. In the tiny study it seemed to grow to mammoth size, and one of the men exclaimed in fear. There was a thump and a sudden click as if a line had been disconnected, and the men were gone. The fireball slammed into the door and the shelves surrounding it, leaving burn marks on the stone wall outside. Protective enchantments gone, the thick books that lined the study flared like dry brush, igniting at once and turning the room into a firestorm.

Ryou, bending over Bakura and ignoring the flames, felt a dreadful tug somewhere in his chest. _Closer_, a voice urged. _You aren't close enough. Goodnight sweet prince and give him a kiss._

He bent closer still, sat down even, and put his hand to the cold face, cupping the cheek, tracing the mouth.

Bakura's eyes snapped open and bored through him, lifeless and sightless. Ryou screamed. Not from shock—no, he had been expecting a macabre moment like this—that inexplicable tug was growing stronger and stronger, _closer! Get _closer, and he wasn't sure he wanted to get any closer. . .somehow Bakura was sitting up and then Ryou was putting his hands on the demon's chest, trying to push away, all the while yelling—"Mana! Sara!Oh my god,_ Mana! _Can't you hear me? _Stop, stop, no, I _won't_—_"

_Ryou! Ryou, what are you doing! Ryou, stop it!_

Amane was screaming in his mind and he mirrored her aloud, beating at Bakura's bloodied frame, and then he shrieked in undiluted horror as his right fist sank _into_ the demon, deeper and deeper, and then his left—_closer. . .closer, yes, yes, do it, closer!_ His hands did not resurface on the other side of Bakura's back.

_Bakura. . ._

"Please stop," whispered Ryou. He laid his head on Bakura's shoulder and ceased to struggle, exhausted. The demon's arms closed like a vise around his lower back, physically _pushing_ him deeper. It was unbelievably intimate.

Hands were ripping him from Bakura. He heard a wail of protest—his own?—and—

—there was a noise like a sucker being released, accompanied by a flash of incredible pain. Ryou lay flat on his back, staring up into Sara's opaque eyes.

Somehow the fire was dying out. He saw Mana in the doorway, the lower half of her body still a mass of tiny pixels. Her tears were drying on her cheeks, and though she looked pale, she was glaring at the fire with a look of immense concentration. Within moments all traces of flame were gone, though half the study had been burned away. Ryou's hair had just started to smolder and, as he lay on the ground, he noticed Sara was beating the fire out with her hands. He thought he should try to help her, but no part of his body would respond. His own hands were prickling with pins and needles. Slowly, he became aware of Bakura's body slumped diagonally across his, one ear touching Ryou's left hand.

Ryou closed his eyes and let the tears trickle faster past his eyelids, dripping across his temples and into his hair. He was weeping now from the profound sense of loss—sickening emptiness—that had pervaded his very being.

"Bakura." His tongue was like rubber. "Is he. . .?"

Then—very carefully, almost feebly—the demon pressed a kiss to Ryou's open palm.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

A/N: _Phew. Shorter than normal, but ACTION PACKED. Haha. At least, I think so. What were your takes on it? I wanted to get it up quickly, so, just like last time, I didn't proofread it more than once. So Bakura (or should we call him Bekhara?) has a _history_ with some very powerful people. And he's just managed to piss off some more powerful people. What exactly was going on with Ryou there, anyway? xD_

A/N: _Kaiba's characterization isn't the best in this chapter; next chapter, when I talk more about Yuugi and the angelic upperworld, I'm hoping to worm my way more deeply into a Kaiba-perspective. It should be challenging._

_Note: Otogi basically took Kaiba's blood and put it into Jou's. That's kind of like giving someone the wrong kind of blood in a transfusion, right? Exactly. So we're going to be seeing some side effects soon enough._

**To All Reviewers:**

Happiness's Deceit: Yea, the Big Five are those wrinkly ugly old men. I don't like them much either. They're gone for now, though. Bakura with a French accent, hm? That's different. When I wrote him I was really going for a hint of British. Teehee.

Hyacinthus: Everyone says "NO BAKURA COME BACK. Yami go away" at least once in their lives. . .haha, in my case it's every episode. . .sigh. Transitions were kind of weird this chapter because I hadn't planned out where to end them exactly. Oh well. I hope they still seemed _kind _of seamless.

lil writer: Lackeys of the crown is most accurate. Thanks for reading!

TRT-sama: Hm. I didn't notice that he said "Allah." Here is where I sweatdrop. Hey, I think I got upset at you over this review. I sweatdrop again. I'm sorry.

Anime Crazed: My favorite quote in that chapter was when Malik said, "What! You mean you were drunk when you told me to climb out the window! You son of a bitch!" Mwahahaha. It makes me _laugh_. _Cackles_

Pihorist: No, not dead yet. I don't plan on dying soon either. . .Ryou abuse is kind of fun. Bad for karma, perhaps. But fun.

Les Scribbles: Well, Bakura was kind of in a corner in this story. As you said, he was usually waltzing around prodigally. . .so I wanted to have him really pissed off in this chapter! Hehe. I haven't quite decided what to do with Malik and Marikku yet. . .they're sort of just stuck, fighting. And we'll get to Yuugi next chapter. I love twists. Mwahaha.

Bloody-Tiger911: Hah! Thank you. I used them too, but I found that curses don't work unless _someone_ understands what you're saying. . .so I stopped. _Sweatdrop_

DojomistressAmbyChan: Oh, come on. . .the cloak was mentioned a little in passing, wasn't it? Haha, you're right. I have a soft spot for random chapter titles. Ryou is freaking out about being molested. But secretly, he _likes_ it, don't you, darling? Hehe.

Misori Chan: This one was kind of fluffy, wasn't it? Aww, they care about each other! Sort of. _Sweatdrop_

hato-chan: Please don't die. I'd be somewhat upset if you did. So would Ryou! _Points at Ryou_

Bourei no Hikari: Whoaaaa. HUGE review. _Stunned_ But I followed your recommendations and soon the writer's block got less solid. Sleeping a lot seemed to help the most. I live in the US, so there's really. . .no reason. . .to use metric measurements. It ties in to the whole "pretending I'm British from time to time," despite the fact that in this story I spelled everything the American way. Yuugi is saying, "It's very good. Do you want a piece?" Mokuba is gone. I don't know where he is. Actually, I know exactly where he is and I can't wait to tell everyone where I've been hiding him. Heehee. Yuugi won't die, don't worry. I could never do that. Only to Ryou. Oh, wait. You didn't read that. The math part came from my screen name. . .which is "math and cake." I was being random. _Sweatdrop_ This is more like end of July, sorry about that. But the update is here in the end, so it doesn't matter as much, I guess.

Chelley Angel: Hahaha. Yes. Eden Rising. GOOD TIMES.

Ciardra: Yes. . .it's basically Mandarin and it's various dialects. I don't know how to use pinyin, so I'm sort of sounding it out as I go. As for Yuugi's falling, you'll find out in good time. _Smile_

Ka Tokubi: Hm, I think I answered your questions already in an email. Yes? I think so. But I know many people who like algebra—I'm just not one of them.

Numia: Yay! Thanks. Tendershipp-y-ness is the best.

MillenniumDreamer: Aw. . .thank you.

Elle-Fatex-: I have a feeling that the castle is going to burn to the ground in the next few chapters and that Ryou isn't going to have time to adjust to his new lodgings. . .but that could just be a feeling, you know. xP

Liviania: I can't really make anything dark. Eventually there has to be some humor. Thanks for reading!

Lady Shriannan Santrea: Kaiba is one big ice cube. Yuugi's love is slashy, trust me. :D Thank you so much.

Yami hitokiri: The Jou-Kaiba-Otogi thing is the weirdest best thing ever. I'm having some trouble with it at the moment, but it'll straighten itself out soon enough. Well. They won't exactly be straightened. But you know what I mean.

Evil Chibi Malik: I stopped biting pens and started chewing gum. I don't know if that's better or worse. I love muffins. Thank you. Otogi's character keeps changing, but let's just say for now he's developed a sort of MPD from being alive so long. Bakura can too be a gentleman. Sort of. Well. He can _try_, can't he? That should count for something. Yuugi's Falling will be tolerable. But high-drama. Of course there would be high-drama. This is me we're talking about.

LunaBakura-chan: He really is a sweetheart.

Orahiko: And continue I shall.

Itakru: Just the fact that you reviewed makes up for it. . .lol. Well. Faust has gotten 844 hits since the counter started (a month or so ago) and 174 reviews since it was published (an entire year ago). That's a little disproportionate, if you ask me. It's really hard finding something to rhyme with "dev'lish," though. . .you know, all those silly prophecies have to rhyme. It's like an unwritten rule. Maybe I should break it.

Goddess Chloe: I love tangled, intricate plots.

Mana-the-Authoress: Yay! I'm glad you do.

The Sabbit: I'm wondering if I could draw fanart for this story. My drawing hand has been idle. Yes. I've started staying up almost until dawn to finish this story (and then sleeping well into the afternoon, of course). I seem to think the best at night. w00t, Pocky!

A/N: _I was reading Harry Potter VI. . .I found it somewhat disappointing. It's not like classic J.K. But then, it could just be me. Anyway, I can't wait until book seven! Harry Potter is the entire reason for my love of intricate plots. Also, Mana's character in this story kind of went backwards. She was supposed to be the calm, ready-in-any-sort-of-panic kind of girl, but she is no longer! Once she calms down, of course, she can handle anything that's thrown at her. She's just got some bad memories is all._

Next chapter:

Yuugi Falls, Jounouchi squalls, and is Bakura mentioned at all? Ryuujitsu utilizes her really bad rhymes! See you soon, in Faust8! (Possibly not until September, I'm afraid.)

ryuujitsu & co.


	8. bodhisattva cathedral

FAUST  
yuugiou fanfiction  
ryuujitsu & co.  
chapter eight: bodhisattva cathedral

Disclaimer: Saying Yuugiou belongs to us is like saying Bakura is ugly. Don't you _ever_ say that again!

A/N: _An update at last! Can it be? It seems I'm always apologizing for being late! But junior year has really bowled me over, and I haven't had any time to write until recently. At the behest of TRT-sama I tried to keep this chapter length reasonable, but it may or may not have run away from me again. It's up to you to decide that, I suppose. Anyway, thank you once again for being so very patient. I hope you find that this chapter was worth the wait._

ITFTC:

"Doom doom doom doom doom. . ."

--Gir, from Invader Zim

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

"Psyche," said Malik, and he lunged at Kero with the butcher knife held firmly in both hands. He had been aiming for the jugular—_finish it quickly_, said the vampire—but Kero brought a fist straight into the inside of his right arm, effectively shocking the limb into paralysis. Malik's left hand tightened convulsively around the hilt of the knife to make up for the damage; the knife sliced cleanly through a thin layer of skin and muscle near Kero's collar bone. The huge demon snarled and clapped a large-knuckled hand to the wound, backing off for a charge.

He came in a rush, head down, blood hitting the air in tiny droplets. Malik danced to the right, ducked down, and drove the edge of the knife into the demon's ankle where the tendon was. '_Sting like a bee!_' The next hit was to the back of Kero's knee, with the blunt side of the knife to stun the demon's leg, then the sharp side into skin and deep inside. Blood spurted; Kero howled.

The demon whirled about and charged again with a thumping rhythm to his limp, hands out and grasping for Malik's throat.

Malik spat and dove for the ground before he could see if his spittle had reached its target or not. Another cut to the other leg, this time across the calf muscle, and Kero went down in a snorting, growling pile. Malik saw the gnashing teeth and the foam beginning to dribble from the berserker's lips and raised the knife a final time, going back for the original jugular shot.

Then, inexplicably, he felt his body begin to rise and straighten; his arms dropped back to his sides while his left palm closed loosely around the knife. _What the—_

Head whipping up in a panic, he took a slow, hypnotized step towards Marikku. The blonde-haired demon was enveloped in a miasma of smoke and flares, fighting Croquet with his back to him. The elderly sorcerer seemed to completely occupied, but as Malik watched, wide-eyed and fearful, Croquet's left index finger twitched, and—the butcher knife raised ever so slightly as an invisible hand tightened Malik's grip against the wooden handle. _It's Croquet_, Malik thought, sweating as he continued to walk. _It has to be. He's doing something—oh, shit, I can't stop! Marikku!_ His next realization doused his body in icy horror. _He's going to make me attack Marikku!_

He wanted to yell a warning, but his mouth would not respond. And Marikku couldn't see him—

He was getting closer now, five feet away, spots dancing in front of his eyes from the sun-flares that were being thrown around. The knife burned in his hand. Dimly, he could still make out Kero's grinding teeth behind him, but the sound was quickly being swallowed up by the noise of the conflict before him. _Fuck, Marikku! Turn around!_ he screamed, willing the demon to see him. _Turn around and _stop me

Three feet. He could only make out the hazy shape of Marikku's back in the smoke. The knife was well over his head now; he felt his shoulders tensing, arching back, preparing for the final blow.

_Marikku!_

Then, as his arms began to swing down—

"Relax, love," said Marikku, and then he was no longer there in Malik's path; Croquet had appeared instead, eyes impossibly wide, mouth disbelieving—and the knife plunged into the sorcerer's chest—somewhere behind them, Kero went completely silent—and Malik sagged to his knees and sobbed aloud, cradling the knife in his lap.

"You fucking bastard," he said to Marikku, wiping at his eyes with shaking hands. "I thought I was going to kill you."

Marikku smiled—a strange not-quite-smile, and his eyes were weary—and said, "Easy trick. Pulled the old 'switcheroo,' on him. He was going for one of those fancy finishing tricks, but it backfired. I'm not exactly a corporeal form here anyway; even if you had stabbed me, nothing too bad would have happened." He took Malik's hand and gave it a hard squeeze, pulling the boy to his feet. "Come on. We have to get out of here before any more of these guys show up. Grab the mirror, will you?" He stepped towards Kero, gripping Malik's wrist now.

Croquet materialized behind them. Malik, looking back, saw him first. He yelled—and drove the knife into Marikku's gut. "Thought you could fool me, you bastard!"

Marikku went ashen-faced, staring down with dismay at the knife in his belly. Malik finished neatly with a karate chop to the base of the neck and the demon went down, blood oozing from between his lips. His yellow hair was had a greenish tint to it, like the neighborhood blonde kid who swam too much in the summer.

Croquet stepped up to the boy, one hand spelling the wound in his chest shut. "'Switcheroo' my ass," he said, in Marikku's voice, and poked the unconscious sorcerer on the floor with his toe. "There ain't no such thing. Good job, chit. For a minute there I thought he'd fooled you." Slowly, his features began melting, reassembling. Within a few minutes, Marikku was brushing his cloak off and readjusting the spikes on his head, his blue eyes dark with disorientation. He held his arms out. "Come here, habibi."

Malik kissed him, then glared. "Let's get the fuck out of here."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

"_Hae, ni kan_," said Yuugi, pointing out the window. "Can see ocean."

Yami poked at the wood in the fireplace with his toe and added another log. "First level's _Fire_," he said softly, and as his palms itched the first gentle yellow flames sprung up in the hearth. He had grown up in the very heart of the underworld among the red moons with the heat and the clutter of the city all around him—this cold, vast expanse of sea was unfamiliar and somewhat frightening.

The Crown Prince, peering over the angel's shoulder, could see the reflections of the waning fourth moon and waxing fifth moon on the water. He turned away after a moment to reassess their surroundings.

The Sickle-Toothed Sea Hag was a rather dilapidated building that looked as if she had seen the better part of two demonic centuries. Their room was on the second story, dimly lit by the fire and a single sputtering candle in the corner, with a sagging bed and a closet full of moth-eaten sheets. In the air there lingered a musty, wet odor, almost coppery—bloody. Yami had taken some of those ragged sheets and assembled for himself a makeshift futon next to the bed; he had a feeling he would not be sleeping this night, however. Below them, the sounds of merry-making and the aroma of cooking meat from the tavern's bar area drifted upward into the night. The window was foggy and jammed shut with age.

They had shed their cloaks and Yami now took the damp material and hung them on the mantle over the fire. Steam rose up almost immediately, filling the room with a smoky, sea-salt smell.

Yuugi had not moved from the window, and stood with his back to the glowing fire. "_Wo de gong gong_," said Yuugi, speaking entirely in angelic as if he feared it would be the last time he would be able to use the language. "_Hn jiu ii chy'in, ta lai dao ze li, zao ni de ma ma, yao dai ta hwai chi tien. __Na ge nyru ren, sh' ni men chiang bao de._"

Yami was startled. "She came willingly," he said fiercely, and the fire in the hearth flared violently, singing the hems of their traveling cloaks. "She loved him—my father."

"Yesss," said Yuugi quietly. And then, quieter still, "Am gladd she llloved that son of hhell."

After that they did not speak, only waited. The convulsions came unexpectedly.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Kujaku Mai sat atop the rickety cage in the back of the slave cart with her legs crossed, shuffling and reshuffling soul contracts. She was still wearing wine-purple, and her leather skirt, corset, and vest were as slick and skin-tight as ever. In the fading light of the glade, her hair shone a fierce red-gold.

"You almost done, babe?" asked Keith, smoking a mundane Marlboro cigarette on the grass. He was trying to blow circular smoke rings and was failing miserably—attaining such bizarre shapes as fish and triangles.

She had the pen between her teeth. "Just about."

He smiled at her, one of those rough toothy half-smiles that you didn't get very easily from Keith, and blew another ring—heart-shaped this time. "Shaitan below," he muttered, tossing the cigarette to the ground and crushing the embers with his bare hand. "Hearts, stars, horseshoes—even some fucking clovers and blue moons. But not a ring. Never a blessed smoke ring."

Mai waved her hand at the smoke-heart and it dissipated before it could touch her tall purple boots. She raised an eyebrow. "Pots of gold and rainbows as well, lover boy?"

"Yes, and those," he grunted, and blew something that looked suspiciously like a red balloon at her.

Mai began filing away her papers. "You can come out now," she called into the forest, holding up her leather briefcase of documents. "I'm done." She did not look up again until Keith suddenly leapt to his feet and sidled in front of her, left hand reaching for the switchblade he kept inside the wagon; when she did look up to remonstrate him, she realized the reason for his actions—"Ah."

"You're breaking a peace agreement," Keith said, palming the switchblade.

The lead angel had eyes like blue stained-glass windows; his three sets of wings held stock still at his sides. He spoke with a distant inflection, as though he were twisting his tongue around his teeth to form the words. "We have permission from the Twelve. An angelic resident of the upperworld has recently gone missing. We have reason to believe that he may be being held here. You are not to impede our search, or we will deal with you appropriately."

"You aren't in Council territory," challenged Mai. "Why should we believe you? And I don't see any demonic escort."

"Search the cart," said the angel to the four standing behind him, and he reached into the air and retrieved a vellum scroll. Mai took the scroll from him, undid the green ribbon that bound it, and began reading. Behind her, the four angels began dismantling the cage on the cart; Keith muttered an oath under his breath.

"'By the order of the Big Five,'" she snapped, flinging it back at the angel. "They aren't any sort of power in this land!"

That was all that Keith needed. With a wild yell he snapped the switchblade open and ran at four who were scrutinizing the cart. They turned, blank expressions melding swiftly into shock—

"Keith!" yelled Mai. "_You are not helping this situation!_"

Keith's blade melted against the first flaming scimitar it met. Swearing loudly, he dropped the knife and popped his burned left knuckles into his mouth, dodging away from the next sword that came swinging at him in a burst of embers. The four angels were practically standing in a line, each waiting their turn to take a swat. Had the circumstances been less serious, Mai would have laughed aloud to see the amazing range of facial expressions and acrobatic feats that Keith was demonstrating. As it was, he had just tripped over a rock and things were not looking too good.

"Lucifer," she muttered darkly to the lead angel in front of her, who was watching Keith's progress with bemusement, and added, "I'm sorry about this. Really."

And then she lifted her leg and slammed her ten centimeter heel into his glassy face.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Leonidas Merlow, inn keeper of the Sickle-Toothed Sea Hag, was in the process of thundering up the stairs. He had been serving ale to the guests when the screams had begun—coming from the second story, they were—and though the noise died down in a moment, tortured screams coming from the top floor of one's tavern were never good for business. His own ale mug was still in his hand, and as he lumbered rather drunkenly on the final steps the golden-brown liquid sloshed over his clothes and shoes.

There were six rooms and two hallways; he paused, momentarily confused, and then another cry—strangled, dying—drew him to the center corridor, first room on the left.

"What in Shaitan's name is goin' on in here?" he roared, throwing the door open. He stopped short and stared.

There was the young man he'd rented the room out to earlier sitting on the bed, black hair damp and richly magenta at the edges, straddling someone else—probably the little boy, his brother—holding in his hands something that writhed and twisted and molted. White feathers drifted in the air and covered the bed sheets and floor in a veritable hailstorm.

"S-seagulls," said the young man, visibly shaken. "Yes, seagulls—he's got a terrible fear of seagulls—one got in through the window; I was just—erm—just getting rid of the wing—I mean, the seagull—sorry about the noise—"

Leonidas looked immediately at the window. It was closed and rusted shut, just as it had been for the past two years.

The boy in the bed had been biting his lip, face constricted in something akin to pain—and now his face twisted again and he wailed, kicking. The young man sat on him more firmly and rubbed the boy's temples. "It's alright," he said loudly, "I took care of that bird. It's alright. See, the gull is gone now."

Leonidas frowned. Perhaps the window had been opened; perhaps the alcohol was playing with his memory. Just like the wife said all the time. "Yeh," he grunted, scratching his head. "Ye'll have t' watch out for those gulls." He set the ale mug down on the table and wandered to the door in a bewildered fashion. "I'll leave it here for the boy, calm his nerves. Keep him quiet or I'll throw ye out."

"Yes, thank you," said the young man politely.

Leonidas opened the door and went out, still scratching his head.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

"Yuugi, Yuugi," whispered Yami, as soon as the inn keeper had closed the door again. "Stay with me."

Yuugi's left wing—for that was what Yami had been holding in his hands—was bent the wrong way, torn at the joining muscle. It was shuddering wildly, bucking like a dying thing. The white feathers were falling at an incredible rate, sometimes drawing blood, and Yuugi was sobbing, biting his fist to keep from yelling. His right wing lay bent under his jerking body, limp and flaccid.

Yami could remember shedding the leathery skin on his wings—the itching, the bizarre papery shell that eventually separated from his back. His feathered wingtip had always molted quite painlessly.

_He's Falling_, said a malicious voice in the Crown Prince's head. _Surely the experience is different. And he wouldn't be Falling if you hadn't—_

"Painkillers," said Yami, his voice a faint gasp. He began digging frantically through his belongings, releasing the twisted wing in the process. Yuugi howled into his fist. "Painkillers, painkillers—oh, shit! Yuugi—" His searching fingers found a packet made of brown paper (purchased hours earlier from Leonidas-Bar-Keeper) and he tore it apart eagerly—too eagerly, for five or six white pastilles spilled out onto the bed sheets and promptly vanished into the maelstrom of feathers. It took another few minutes to locate one, and by then it seemed as if the pill might not be needed—Yuugi looked as though he were going to lose consciousness at any moment.

"Just let me—" Yuugi was slurring now, his eyelids flickering. "Just—blackness soon, I won't need—_ah_—"

"Shaitan, Shaitan, Shaitan," hissed Yami, feeling the tears dripping down his face in hot, syrupy rivulets. He pressed the pill to the angel's lips and swore when he saw that Yuugi was past swallowing anything. He abandoned the wing altogether and began hunting for something else. _Why didn't I think of them sooner—blessit, blessit!_

The wing, still hanging by a thick tendon, flapped again and again of its own accord as if it were trying to fly free of the body it was attached to, and Yuugi wailed and tossed.

It could not continue like this. Like the umbilical cord that wrapped around an infant's neck, this wing was going to strangle Yuugi's life out of him if it weren't severed soon. Already the angel's breath was coming shorter, face paler, veins bulging in his neck and forehead; lips and fist bloody from being bitten, the skin of his back torn and crimsoned. Bruises were forming on his wrists and torso, where Yami was holding him down.

Yami found his penknife. He saw his own maddened reflection in the blade, heard Yuugi's sharp intake of breath. He was on all fours above the angel, and he said softly, babbling, almost crooning, "Yuugi, Yuugi, I'm so sorry, close your eyes, yes, that's it, don't think, don't think about what I'm doing, don't think at all. . ."

"Yami—Yami—_no_—_no, no, NO_—"

"Forgive me. . .!" He touched the knife to the bloodied tendon, sitting on Yuugi's arms to keep him from fighting. Yuugi screamed, and kept screaming until abruptly, his eyes rolled up into his skull and he fell back, now blissfully unaware. Yami took the knife in both hands now and kept sawing away with frenzied determination, and when it was done and the wing lay severed, still twitching, he moved on to the other, tears streaming down his face.

When he had finished he pressed the blade to his lips and threw it across the room, then fell exhausted beside the cataleptic angel. He was soon asleep.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Dawn saw Malik and Marikku creeping furtively through the streets of Vladmir, hand in hand. Actually, Marikku had his hand around the hilt of the butcher knife (retrieved from Croquet's stomach) and Malik had his fingers wrapped around Marikku's wrist, but that's a technicality that can easily be ignored. That is, if you also ignored the fact that Marikku's other (and rather inexplicably) _two_ hands were being used to plug the hole in his chest, which had reappeared after some time, when it became apparent that his magic was waning. They had lost the mirror sometime during their wild flight across the cobblestones.

"If you're a fucking holograph," said Malik reasonably, "why do you have to stop the bleeding? You aren't going to die, are you?"

"That's lovely, habibi," grunted Marikku. He switched hands and suddenly grew another limb out to wipe his face. "Considering I've been _myself_ for the past two hours. I would think you'd notice something like that, but apparently not."

Malik blinked. "Well, fuck," he said. "Why didn't you say so?"

"Malik—I'm bleeding to death and Pegasus is probably going to sic some goons on us when his breakfast is late and he finds the bodies. Can we talk about this later? Alright?"

Malik sulked and concentrated on walking faster. "Where are we headed?" He took his sash and began winding it around Marikku's chest, freeing up all four of the demon's hands for navigational purposes. They were doing their best to keep quiet but every now and then would put on the appearance of drunkards when the occasional pedestrian gave them a funny look. As it happened there were two children staring at them, and Malik quickly hid Marikku's extra hands and began singing rowdily until they were out of sight.

Marikku waited another moment before dropping the bomb. "Dahlia. My castle. Isis is staying there until the fighting dies down in Uster."

"Isis?" said Malik in alarm. He had been fastening the sash and now gave it such a hard tug that Marikku yelled.

"Gently!"

Malik shook his head vehemently. "Oh, no, no, _hell_ no. We aren't going to see Isis. She's got that infernal cookie jar. Your sister is fucking crazy, and we aren't going to see her. How about ANKH's Bakura? Bakura's all nice and cozy in Dahlia, isn't he? He's got a bunch of freeloaders living with him—I don't think he's gonna mind having two more for a bit."

"Bakura," said Marikku between gritted teeth, "is probably going to try to seduce you."

"Isis is on that Council of yours, isn't she?" retorted Malik, frowning. "Isn't she going to report us or something? I don't know about you, but I'm not going to just go and walk into a fucking trap."

"I'm her _brother_," said Marikku. "Pegasus is of another faction anyway; she'll do it to hurt his chances."

"But she has that fucking cookie jar!" snapped Malik.

Marikku stopped walking and took Malik's hands in all four of his (he then gained a fifth to ruffle the boy's hair), and said very earnestly, "Malik, habibi, I promise I will not allow that cookie jar to come within twenty meters of your damned being. Now, will you come with me to Dahlia?"

Malik scowled. "Alright," he said grudgingly. "But if it does come near me—I'm going to dismember you piece by piece and feed you to some fucking crows." Suddenly cheerful, he continued, "Like the Tibetans do."

"That's harsh. . ."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Yami awoke to the strangest sensation—one of having his nose tickled by a feather duster. He at first thought he had somehow returned to the palace of his childhood during the night and panicked, but then, as his eyes slowly became accustomed to the light, he noticed several things to alleviate this fear—such as the black wingtip resting just below his chin. Mercilessly, the memory of the night before rushed back, terrifying in its clarity.

Yuugi was watching him with glazed violet eyes, his once-rounded face a good deal more angular and drawn. In those eyes Yami saw himself—haggard, pale, and spattered with blood.

"Yuu. . .gi." His voice was a croak.

Yuugi did not reply for several moments, only lay there, breathing. In, out. His cheeks had a good rosy color but Yami was uncertain if he was seeing the blood under the skin or above it glowing so healthily. When he spoke, it was little more than a whisper. "_Ni ba wo de tze pang chien dyao_—you cut off my wings." His accent had all but vanished.

Yami raised himself to a sitting position and looked about, expecting to see a great mess of white feathers. To his surprise, he found neat piles of white dust strewn across the room. Yuugi's wings, the new ones, were broad and black with a glossy blue sheen, like a raven's back. _When did they appear?_ Their cloaks were only slightly ashy near the hems and hung undisturbed on the mantle; outside it was drizzling through a fine gray mist. The Crown Prince was not at all sure of the time, but it did not matter, did it? He lay back with a heavy sigh and raised his hands to his eyes. They were coated in blood that, in drying, had formed an intricate series of cracks across his palms, like old thick paint.

For a time all he could manage was a whistle of air between his lips. Then, finally, he rasped, "Forgive me."

Yuugi did not reply, and Yami felt his world turning.

"Yuugi," he whispered. "Yuugi, please." Still Yuugi did not respond and Yami kissed his hand, his cheek, his mouth—kissed him desperately and asked with each pause, "Forgive me." Yuugi made a small noise, and Yami, sensing that he might be gaining some ground, placed the gentlest of kisses on the angel's furrowed brow. "Please."

"Ah," said Yuugi, and the tears in his eyes seemed to soften the lines in his face. "It hurt so much. _Hae_, it hurt—and I did it for you—all for you—"

The Crown Prince took the angel's hands into his own and wept.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

"Shaitan on a skewer!" said Mana, dropping the stack of plates she was carrying. They hit the floor and bounced, turned briefly to rubber by a fast-acting enchantment. The demoness stooped to retrieve them. After placing the plates safely on the counter and magicking them back into good solid china, she straightened and fixed Bakura with an icy blue stare. "What in hell do you think you're doing, Master Bakura? You aren't supposed to be out of bed yet."

Bakura blanched. "Actually, poppet," he said. "I'm not. You're dreaming. In fact, when I snap my fingers, you're going to wake up and I won't be here at all." He snapped his fingers and looked down at himself in dismay. "Oh. My mistake, sweetheart," he said. "I'll just be going now. . ."

Mana reached out and grabbed him by the ear, astonished with her daring. "Oh no you don't," she said firmly. "I am taking you back up to bed. Now."

"But, darling—"

"_Now_," she said dangerously, and with one hand pressed hard against the silver fiend's back, she steered him through the hallway and up the winding staircase.

It had been, in demonic measurements, a week and two days since the incident with the Big Five. For the first three days Ryou could remember nothing but blackness and the occasional drift back into reality, the soft sound of Bakura's breathing in his ear that would lull him back into unconsciousness. On the fourth day he had found himself fully aware but unable to move, his arms and legs paralyzed and useless. Bakura slept on. After a day, when he was able to swivel his head from left to right, Ryou became aware of Medusa lying on the bed, holding vigil near his and Bakura's feet; of Lucifer Bastet cupped under his hand. Mana would check on them mechanically on the hour, every hour, and while Sara's visits were more erratic, the faerie was at their bedside at least twice a day, watching only Bakura, day in and day out.

Gradually, as feeling and movement returned to his body, Ryou had found himself growing concerned with Bakura's seemingly endless slumber. The demon lay unmoving and so _pale_, white like the dead bones one finds in the desert, bleached by sun and sand. Every so often a dribble of brackish, half-coagulated blood would seep from the corner of his mouth, and either Mana or Sara, standing attentively nearby, would wipe it away. Ryou had been uneasy about touching the demon, for fear of a repeat of what had happened previously. The ache concentrated somewhere deep in his chest increased with sullen determination, but Ryou bit his lips and stared flatly at the ceiling. This time, would Sara be there to pull him free? He wasn't sure he wanted to take the risk.

Sometime on the sixth day, Medusa had gotten to her feet and padded silently off the bed. As Ryou caught her leaving from the corner of his eye, he could have sworn that there was something different about her appearance. _Has she given up hope? But he seemed alright—_

Bakura was so quiet.

It was night on the eighth day that Ryou threw caution to the winds and found his hand slipping into Bakura's. The room was more humid than usual and his woolen sweater was sticking to his back and stomach, itching uncomfortably. Bakura's hand was disconcertingly dry.

"Hey," Ryou whispered.

In the moonlight sifting through the window he thought that Bakura's eyelashes were glimmering. It was then that he realized he was peering into two opening slits—wet, red eyes. Bakura reached up with a groping hand, not bending at the elbow or wrist, and caught Ryou at the base of his jaw, cupping the side of his face at an awkward angle. The garnet eyes slid shut again.

"Kiss me," said the silver fiend, blindly, and the ache in Ryou's chest increased tenfold. So he bent his head and did as he was told.

It was over in a matter of seconds. Bakura gave a soft little sigh and Ryou peeled back the cloak and pressed his trembling lips against the gentle pulse beneath the demon's jaw, letting his tears trickle slowly down the white neck and into the mattress beneath them, tangling his fingers through the demon's matted hair.

"Stop hiccupping like that, soul-boy," said Bakura faintly, offering one sleeve of the cloak for Ryou to wipe his dripping nose on. "I'm alright."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

"Keep up, mutt," called Kaiba over his shoulder.

Otogi, picking little splinters of wood out of his clothing, made no sign of having heard the ice demon. He instead addressed Jounouchi, who, two weeks recovered now, was walking some six meters behind. "When I was but three days dead I had a liaison with Catherine of Russia!"

"The hell you did," Jou shot back.

The desert was still a prominent feature in the landscape; it was sunset, and it had become increasingly difficult to discern red sky from red sand. They had been walking for some time now—four hours since they departed from Uster and ten days since their flight from Shadrach—and to say that Jou's feet were getting tired was to make a massive understatement. He was starting to think that his prior near-death experiences could be equated to luxury vacations. This was real hell, literally and figuratively. His legs burned.

"You're wrong," said Otogi cheerfully. "I really did have a liaison with Catherine of Russia—_a_ Catherine of Russia, anyway. No "Greats" attached anywhere although I must say that her bosom could have been considered both "great" and attached—"

Kaiba sighed noisily and held out a hand, stopping altogether. "We have a good deal to travel before we reach Dahlia. I am not going to listen to your moronic anecdotes the entire journey, vampire. And I am not going to stop for you again, mutt."

"Hey," said Jou a little angrily, still slogging along at the same rate, eyes flaring, hands fisting inside his pockets. "If you're gonna keep calling me mutt then I'm going to start calling you demonic motherfucker from hell _with_ a grim reaper complex, you hear that?"

Kaiba made an ironic bow. "Whatever you say, mutt."

"Shut the fuck up, Kaiba," said Jou, weary of the argument. He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and tried to walk faster and tried not to think of anything but Shizuka. Time was weird in the underworld, that much he had figured. Maybe she was only just waking up now. . .wondering where her oniisan had gone. . .

"What happened to 'demonic motherfucker from hell with a grim reaper complex?'" said Otogi curiously. Kaiba smirked.

"Why don't you shut the fuck up too," Jou began, but in that instant he was struck with such an immense wave of dizziness that he came to a halt in the sand, swaying. He snarled in frustration, baring his teeth and suddenly feeling very much like a feral dog. _Not again. I'm fucking _tired_ of being the damsel in distress—what the hell is going on with me! Oh, shit—_

He saw Kaiba moving toward him in exasperation, face drawn and furious, and then all at once the desert and the fading sun on the horizon and the demon swarmed out of view.

He saw the boy first, a child of no more than seven dressed in a blue jumper, with a ratty mane of almost-purple hair, gray enough that Jou thought for a moment that he saw not a boy but an old man, hunched with age. The boy was building a sandcastle—building one without his hands, building one by staring at the sand and willing it into parapets and turrets and walls. Inexplicably it came into his head, rather nonsensical: _This kid is a Kaiba and Kaiba is not Kaiba._ He squatted beside the boy, watching him, watching the sand obey the boy's thoughts, watching a castle grow out of the sand.

The boy turned and looked—not at him, but through him—to a shadowy woman standing somewhere behind. Jounouchi could not see her. He squinted and peered but she would not come into focus.

"Madar," said the boy, in a voice as clear and pristine as ice. "Madar, look at what I made."

Jounouchi saw four minarets forming from the sand, and it occurred to him that he had seen this castle before somewhere, vaguely in his mind. The thought was not his—not quite his at all. The sand itself was a rough sort of yellow, caked and dry in the hollow of a riverbed that had dried out decades, perhaps even centuries, ago. No water in sight.

The shadowy woman made a reply, encouraging like any mother might be, but whatever she had said brushed past Jounouchi's ears in an unintelligible whisper.

_Look at the boy only. Here is Shaitan before your eyes._

The castle grew. The boy did not stop until before him sat a mound of sand, a summer palace that spanned at least a dozen sprawling royal complexes. He was fixated, adding a mosque here, another minaret there, an Oriental bridge. Perfect symmetry. "Madar," he said anxiously. "Look, look."

The woman was not looking, and Jou heard her voice in instant clarity, a little surprised. "Why, Set! What kept you?"

The voice that answered was gratingly familiar, and Jou turned and stared at Seto Kaiba. He appeared to be in the throes of adolescence, with longer hair than expected and a perpetual frown about his mouth. He made a stiff bow to the boy in the sand and addressed the shadowy woman. "I was with Father, Madam."

"Madar!" shouted the boy in the sand.

The woman made another encouraging murmur that Jou could not catch. "Of course you were," she said to Kaiba, somewhat condescendingly. "And did you bring—"

"Yes, Madam." Under his arm Kaiba held a stack of books; he gestured at them with his free hand. "If the Princeling and Madam will allow, I will begin tutoring." He bowed now to the shadowy woman and began making his way toward the dry riverbed.

"Did you teach him this, Set?" asked the woman. She was referring to the sandcastle.

In Kaiba's smile there was nothing reminiscent of the usual half-smirk he wore. "Yes," he said simply. "Now, if Madam will allow. . ."

She struck him fiercely on the cheek, and in the dream-vision the noise seemed to resound infinitely. Kaiba's head snapped to the side; an angry crimson mark began to form on his formerly white face. "You mustn't," she said softly. _The boy is Shaitan and he will lead us and you must not fill his head with such nonsense, do you understand; do you understand it, Set?_

He said nothing and bowed again, and this time when he smiled it was a hard, mocking smile—

—and his eyes were ice blue and boring into Jounouchi's, his hands on Jou's shoulders, shaking him wildly, his mouth open and roaring, "_What did you see?_"

Jou made an involuntary noise, somewhere between a cry and a gasp. All around them was desert golden with the sun's final rays, and he sensed Otogi hovering somewhere to his left. But Kaiba filled his eyes. Kaiba, who, without warning, stopped his shaking and fell back, clinging to Jou's shoulders to stay upright; the demon's face paled, as though a terrifying thought had just occurred to him.

"Oh," said Otogi, quite faintly. The vampire seemed to have made the same connection.

Jounouchi swallowed several times, trying to calm his frayed nerves. "What? Why're you looking at me like that?"

"Never do that again," said Kaiba, after several moments of silence. His gaze was intense, as though he were trying to hypnotize Jounouchi into obeying him.

Jounouchi growled, his old anger returning. He lunged at Kaiba and threw him down against the sand, fully intending to pummel him. "Do _what_, motherfucker? Why don't you fucking tell me what just happened and then maybe I won't do it again, how about that! And what did I see, Kaiba? What did I see! What was that! Are you fucking with my head again, asshole?"

Kaiba lay with his eyes closed and ignored Jou. "Otogi," he said, and Jounouchi's fist stalled of its own accord.

"No," said the vampire vaguely. "No, I don't think it's going to have any negative effects in the future. He's. . .going to have some quirks from now on. Ah, I quite forgot. . .it never even occurred to me. . .it was blood. . ."

"Fucking great," spat Kaiba, practically growling. He got to his feet, dragging Jou up with him, and pressed their foreheads together. Stooping somewhat, he forced a chilled hand under Jounouchi's jaw, jerking the boy's head up. The air around him seemed frozen. "Mutt."

Jou glared at the ice demon defiantly and told himself that his thundering heart was due to adrenaline.

"I owed you a blood-debt, because of the fight you picked with the angel in the train. Two weeks ago, while you were out cold," explained Kaiba rather dispassionately (and also rather deliberately, most likely so Jou could have time to process his words), "the vampire and I performed a blood transfer. Being dead, Otogi has no ready stores of blood himself, so the blood taken was mine. My blood is satanic in origin—from the line of the current dynasty."

"That woman—" began Jounouchi. Somehow he knew the truth. _She wasn't. . ._

"Be silent!" Kaiba snapped, and Jou scowled and closed his mouth. "You have my blood. Otogi and I were unaware that there would be other consequences."

Jou thought about it for a minute. "Are you saying I'm part demon now?" he asked at length, frowning up at Kaiba. The demon's hand was going to give his face frostbite soon. "Am I gonna start throwing ice balls in my sleep or something?"

"You aren't going to be any more of a demon than me, kid," said Otogi. "Just gonna be some weird stuff happening."

"Oh," said Jou, and he couldn't really say any more, because his jaw was starting to ice up. Kaiba swore and moved his hand—ice crystals formed down Jou's lips and throat, following the demon's fingers, and Jou shuddered—from the cold, of course—and Kaiba began striding away. He did not look back.

"Let's go," the demon said, voice steely. "I don't have time for this."

Otogi prodded Jou's back. "You know," he said musingly, "if you just sat down and waited, he'd probably come back for you. . ."

Jou shook off the vampire's hand and made his legs move after Kaiba, feeling a sharp twinge as his chin began to thaw. In his mind, though, he was thinking of the castle in the riverbed and the shadowy woman and the purple-haired boy. _Look at the boy. Here is Shaitan before your eyes. . ._

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

"Shaitan?" said Bakura, dipping the quill back into the ink jar. He was repairing a fire-damaged book, rewriting the burned section (apparently from memory). "Shaitan is the title held by a King of Hell. I thought you knew that."

Ryou shook his head. "I do," he said. "Mum taught me. But can't you tell me a history?"

Bakura snorted, found a fresh parchment, and began scribbling runes furiously. "Let Mana do that; she's the one who studies. The book itself has been burnt up along with half my library and is in no condition to be read. Really, soul-boy, whatever possessed you to let the cat cough up his fireball indoors?" He grinned lopsidedly up at Ryou.

It had been a sore point for quite some time now. "You were dying," said Ryou, with considerably less patience and less gentleness than he'd had when he'd said it the first time, days ago.

Bakura's smirk was huge and almost predatory. "Better to have died than to have to rewrite my library!" Mana, sensing a spat, paused from where she, too, was mending some books and gave Bakura a warning look, but he plowed on in blissful ignorance. "I've spent years building up this collection, you know," he said. "Thousands upon thousands of priceless books—history, sorcery, and possibly pornography—all irreplaceable, and now burnt to ash. Tsk, tsk, tsk."

Ryou snapped his book shut with a resounding thump, face flushed. Ashes flew up into the air and the book all but disintegrated. "_You could have died_," he said, red to the ears. "You could have died and all you seem to think about are your silly books; you could have bloody died and if you had then your damned bloody books wouldn't mean a singly. . .bloody. . .thing."

Bakura did not seem fazed. He stood, caught Ryou by the elbow, and pulled him close, murmuring, "For hell's sake, soul-boy, I'm only teasing. . ."

"You're always teasing," said Ryou shortly.

"How frustrating," said Bakura, releasing Ryou's arm with a sigh. "A wizard in a tower with two of his servants, who are constantly accusing him of horrible mistruths—laziness, infidelity—the eating of babies. . ."

Mana giggled despite herself.

"How can I make you understand?" said Bakura, his red eyes fixing on Ryou's face with such intensity that Ryou's flush of anger became a scarlet blush. "It has become apparent that you are somehow key to my own existence. Whether or not I cared for you, I would keep you shackled to me in the interest of survival. It is, however, quite fortunate for me that I find you so dreadfully attractive—" here he cocked his head to a rakish angle "—and I do believe you hold me in the same regard. Now come here."

On finding that his body was already moving to do the silver fiend's bidding, Ryou's mind heaved a sigh of exasperation and promptly abandoned its attempts to provide a voice of reason.

"Meow," said Bakura imperiously. "Mana, you are excused. I would like you to restore the lower level to its former glory—we are expected to be running tomorrow evening."

"Yes, sir," said Mana, doing her best not to smile broadly and failing miserably. "I'll have it done by tonight."

Bakura waited until she had gone and shut the study door, then stood, pushing his pen and inkwell away from him. "I tire of these books," he said quietly, eyeing Ryou like one might eye a particularly enticing platter of sweets. "I should like a distraction. Didn't I tell you to come here?"

Ryou hesitated only briefly, and by then Bakura had deposited an arm snugly around his waist and drawn him in.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

A/N: _Enough smut for this chapter! Heh. I honestly have no idea when the next chapter is going to come out, but if we're going to estimate, then I suppose December seems a fair guess. I have been reading _Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell_ by Susanna Clarke, and it is a very good book indeed. I recommend it to everyone! Magic, humor—it's great. Well, Faust so far hasn't moved much, right? I promise that it is starting to pick up._

_Notes:_

_Croquet did do a switching spell. He forced Marikku into his appearance, but Malik was able to figure it out and stab the right guy. (After some trial and error, though. . .)_

"Wo de gong gong. . .Hn jiu ii chy'in, ta lai dao ze li, zao ni de ma ma, yao dai ta hwai chi tien. Na ge nyru ren, sh' ni men chiang bao de." _That is angelic for "My grandfather. . .a long time ago, he came here to find your mother—to bring her back to the sky. That woman was raped by your kind." Or something like that. It's not very necessary to the conversation, but that was the translation anyway._

_Hearts, stars, and horseshoes? Clovers, blue moons? Sound familiar? It was almost a cameo appearance. But it is vital to the plot. (The fight between Keith, Mai and the angels. Not the Lucky Charms catchphrase.)_

_All readers of Eden Rising will remember the infamous cookie jar. . ._

_Painkillers in the underworld? Well. . .why not? As for all the random names of cities being thrown out, I really need to make myself a map! I'm getting confused about where everything is located geographically. . .heh, just know that these cities are somewhere in the underworld. Yep._

_Catherine the Great, the Russian Empress. . .y'all remember her. Otogi's being silly._

_Remember how I talked of "side effects" from the transfusion? That little vision there was one of them. And the plot thickens! Haha._

**To all Reviewers:**

The Rabid Toenail: It was only seventeen pages this time, I think. Are you happy? Haha.

Carmen-Nemrac: Hope this chapter was less confusing. . .

DragonRider258: Haha, thank you for reading!

Andyouthinkimcrazy: Ah, I'm so sorry! It took until October.

Evil Chibi Malik: Aw. . .I love your long reviews! Crump really was a pompous asshole, wasn't he? I really liked the scene with Bakura. . .it was great to write. I actually started to tremble when I thought of writing it. . .that's how happy it made me. _sweatdrop_

Anime Crazed: Yep! Ryou acting like Bakura ties into the plot somewhat, so I can't really explain it right now. . .the voice Ryou was hearing was his own—vaguely in the back of his head.

Yami hitokiri: That really was an awesome scene to write. Ah, I didn't see you at Otakon! I ended up grabbing a random person and introducing myself, and they said. . . "Who on earth are you?" and it was kind of awkward. _Sweatdrop_ Otogi is a fun vampire. I like Kaiba though. But he's impossible to write!

Onegi-sama: I don't know, but it's frustrating. At least in the Memory Arc Bakura plays a bigger (and slightly more shirtless) part. Heh.

AphroditeLove: Happy really late birthday! Lol.

Hyacinthus: Bakura is such a rebel. They're all rebels. But Bakura is the best one. Ah, yea. . .my action scenes tend to be a little jumbled, as of late. . .well, my excuse is that I am trying to bring out a sense of chaos and disorganization! Hehehe. . .

moocow33: I didn't like HP6 at all! But, I'm glad you liked the last chapter. It was amazingly fun to write.

Chelley Angel: And another update! Housewives are indeed terrifying creatures. And you are very welcome; I try to scare everyone half to death at least once a chapter. Teehee.

Liviana: Faust 8 has arrived. . .The Kaiba/Jou/Otogi interactions are kind of falling apart. I'm not sure what to do with those three. I have an endpoint in mind, but how on earth are we going to get there?

hato-ryou-chan: Ah, it's late. . .I hope you're still alive.

Cadaver's Kiss: I think I wrote back in an email, but it's been long enough that I've forgotten. _Sweatdrop_ Yes. The ankh is tied into things, although it is not as crucial as simply the magic going on between Bakura and Ryou. And I don't just mean figuratively. There is some literal magic going on, and it will be revealed soon! Otherwise, thank you, I'm very glad you liked it.

BlackStarr of DarkFall: You figured out how to submit your story, right?

Suteneko-chan: Really? Ah, that's great to hear! _Grin_ I think I have done a good job with the last chapter, then, if it played havoc with your emotions. Hehe.

LunaBakura-chan: I didn't like HP6 because it lacked a major twist. . .everything could be seen coming; there was no final surprise, no really complex plot. And Harry Potter is what inspired my love of complexity in plots, so it is disappointing that her latest book features almost no plot at all! _Sad_

MillenniumDreamer: Not exactly part-demon. . .

Les Scribbles: Haha, indeed! Anytime the berserker speaks softly we're in for some mayhem. No, no, you mustn't give cookies to Malik. He lives in mortal fear of Isis' cookie jar. I love the Kaiba-Otogi-Jou group too! They are fun to write, but right now I have no idea what to do with them! _Sulk_

Itakru: Ryou took out Lucibast and shot a huge ball of fire at the Big Five! Oooh. Lol. It was neither Bakura nor the necklace doing the pulling. You'll see. _Grin_

setokaibalover25: My goodness. Don't massacre me. I wouldn't really appreciate that. . .glad you liked it, though.

Lady Shriannan Santrea: Really? I was worried Mana's reaction was a little bit too dramatic for the scene. Lucibast is fun; Medusa is my firm favorite, however.

Daje Elle Nante: Bakura is hot! He is on fire! He sizzles! Haha. Not exactly possession. . .like I've been saying, you'll see soon!

Nightlast: I'm afraid the characterization and style of this story fluctuate so much because of the gap between chapters! I simply don't have the time to keep writing, so in between chapters I end up losing or forgetting my original characterization. _Sweatdrop_ It is a little bit frustrating.

Roxie Archer: Have you ever read _Howl's Moving Castle?_ Bakura is part Howl as well. Hmm…I can kind of hear the type writer now that you've mentioned it.

chibikuro rose-sama: Yep yep, I promise it will be explained soon!

Queen of the Chapstic: It's alright; better one review than none at all. Aaah! Thank you for recommending it! _Happy_

BishounenzAngel: I wouldn't say I'm the best, really. Heh, happy to hear you enjoyed it so much!

Bourei no Hikari: Silly. . .ah, I'm so upset! We missed the Memory Arc beginning. Oh, now I live for re-runs. I will never be able to get up in time for a seven o'clock show, not even with the help of my alarm clock.

Mana-the-Authoress: Thanks for reading!

LynLin: That Sara part is going to be explained in full within a few chapters. Jrock is very awesome, of course I had to include it! Heh.

Versailles and Phoenix: Thank you!

DaakuKitsune: _Grin_ I'm very glad to make your head spin. . .mwahaha.

Daughter of Horus: Thank you!

mischeif-maker: It definitely is going to be loads of fun.

Orahiko: I think I emailed you, but to reiterate, it takes anywhere from two weeks to two or three months depending on the amount of time I have to work, or the level of inspiration I have for a certain chapter. . .I'm sorry it takes so very long, but that's how I work. Otakon is in Baltimore's Inner Harbor, the largest convention in the East Coast, second only to Anime Expo, which is the largest in the US.

you-go-on-my-cookie: Mm. . .I have often been tempted to write limes and lemons, but I can never get the courage up to do it. Also I live in a house with some inquisitive parents and a nosy sister, and all hell might break loose should they get into my files. . .yep, that line was my favorite line too!

randomnatrix: Well. . .I'm never very good at keeping my word when it comes to this story! No, I'm not going to kill Pegsy. I like him more and more each chapter. A little too dramatic, I thought. . .it's fun to write, though.

Fuzzy-Oh: I'm happy you decided to read it after all! Glad you like it.

-'-Chocolate-Coated-Chocobo-'-: Why must I die? I do love run-on sentences though. Sorry about your computer troubles.

A/N: _Right then. . .no chapter summary for Faust9, I'll leave it up to your imaginations! Have fun._

:ryuujitsu & co.:


	9. dulce et decorum est

FAUST  
yuugiou fanfiction  
ryuujitsu & co.  
chapter nine: dulce et decorum est

Disclaimer: Saying Yuugiou belongs to us is like saying bad eggs smell of krypton.

A/N: **_I LIVE!_**

ITFTC:

"I'm _complicated_"

-- Dorian Grey, _The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen (movie)_

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Night was fast approaching the demon encampment on the shores of Arachne, so many kilometers from home. They were the fifty-first division, of Uster, although several recruits were stragglers picked up from other military units that had suffered virtual destruction at the hands of the angelic legions. Azhar Ishtal, survivor of six miserable battles since the start of the war, was one of the proud sons of Uster, born and raised within its innermost city. A noble of relatively high status, he had enlisted mostly to thwart his father, but as with all demons, he too longed to shed a little blood before his time was done. And the angelics had had it coming for decades.

After eight wretched months spent trekking here and there, switching en masse, and doing his best to avoid getting slaughtered. . .well, he was getting somewhat irritated with the demonic losing streak. He had gone to war in a flurry of unexpected patriotism and youthful spontaneity, and now the quick victory that everyone had wanted and predicted was sliding further and further out of reach.

Ishtal sat with his back against the cave wall, carving a mouse the size of a demon-head for Medusa, out of an old chariot cart he'd found abandoned on the battleground. Through the mouth of the cave the fading light was reflecting off the ocean, casting an orange glow on the rocks. It would have been rather picturesque but for the mangled bodies lying out on the sand, still waiting for collection. The floors of the cave were worn smooth with magic and stained brown with blood.

The golden-haired demon felt a shadow fall over him and paused from his whittling, looking up into a familiar face. "Bekhara," he said, in greeting. Then, with mild surprise, "You look. . ."

Bekhara's face was almost angelic in its serenity, but his eyes were calculating, gleaming red. "Do I look different, Ishtal?"

"Yes," said Ishtal, feeling vaguely unsettled. "Your eyes—"

Against the bone-white of his friend's face the two changed eyes were large and bright and _very_ obviously crimson. Ishtal looked again at the tranquil countenance and remembered, conversely, the dark anger that had mottled and twisted his friend's features, the terrible shout that had broken past his lips, the violence of his fists against the bloodied sand as their division had been forced to retreat. He also remembered distinctly the rare purple eyes that had flashed and crackled and turned black with wrath, as Bekhara screamed _this isn't finished, you fucking angels_ and Ishtal grabbed his arm and pulled and _blessit, Bekhara, let's go, let's go_—

"Well, Ishtal?" said Bekhara with a slow smile, breaking him from the memory.

Ishtal stood abruptly; the mouse and knife dropped to the ground with a clatter. "What the hell happened to you?" he hissed, grabbing the other by the shoulders and giving him a hard shake. "Bekhara? What the hell did you do!"

Bekhara's smile only broadened; his eyes were glittering like the fresh blood on the snowy mountains of Vladmir, during those first few months of battle. "Look at me, Ishtal," he said, very softly, taking Ishtal's hands in his own, so that Ishtal could feel the strange heat of them, the foreign smoothness on palms that had only hours earlier been callused and scarred. "We're going to win this war. I've made sure of it."

_He's gone mad,_ thought Ishtal, jerking out of reach with a shudder.

The silver fiend looked at him, those terrible wide eyes brimming with bloody laughter. "Stay by me tomorrow, Ishtal," Bekhara said, so very sweetly.

He could not refuse, and he could not look away.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

The desert was insufferably cold at night. Jou shivered and glared at his demonic and vampiric companions; Otogi was dead and probably had no sense of temperature—Kaiba, however, seemed to be in his element.

"The red eyes of Shaitan, indeed, the red eyes of any demon," Otogi was saying rather pompously, "are a mark of power and good breeding—good blood made evident by the crimson of the eyes. Only those in the line of Shaitan, for the past demonic millennia, have been born with these eyes." He fluffed imaginary coattails and cleared his throat. "Hrem. The other lines eventually interbred to form the royal house, or were exterminated by their political enemies. There's a lovely history to it, of course, but I was never really _that_ well read."

Jou stopped fiddling around with his collar and looked up at the vampire. "Hey. Kaiba, he doesn't have red eyes."

"Very astute, mutt," said Kaiba sardonically.

Jou grinned at the demon's back. "Yeah, yeah, I'm a regular rocket scientist. Aren't you so proud of me?" When he got no further reply he laughed and turned back to Otogi. "Yeah, so keep going. How come Kaiba doesn't have red eyes?"

Kaiba's shoulders stiffened; he quickened his pace.

Otogi coughed. "Well, obviously it's because he's not from a royal bloodline." He stopped walking suddenly as a thought occurred to him. "Wait a minute, wait a minute, wait a damned minute. Kaiba-boy, what's going on? Is there something you're not telling us? I thought—"

"Ah, so he thinks," interrupted Kaiba smoothly, giving the vampire a glacial look over his shoulder. "And here I was assuming that your brain functions had died with you."

Otogi laughed nervously. "No such luck. . .right, then, kid, that's the end of today's story."

"Yeah, yeah, stupid bastard can't stand to lose all that drama and mystery," muttered Jou. "Must be a regular chick magnet. What, Kaiba, do you have an icicle up your ass or something?"

Suddenly Kaiba was in front of him and in his face, blue eyes gone glacial, nostrils flared. "I want to make something clear to you, mutt," he said deliberately, and Jou could hear the ice splintering in his voice. "I am more powerful than any angelic elite. You think that angel messed you up? Cross me once more, and your skull will effectively be removed from the rest of your body. You may not need your head to function, human, but I assure you the separation will be more painful than anything any angelic could inflict. Otogi likes brains, don't you, vampire?"

"Mmm, fried brain sandwiches," said Otogi, eyeing Kaiba uneasily. "I'll pass."

Jou breathed out and a single involuntary shudder coursed through his body. He could only stare at the demon, momentarily stunned into silence. _Didn't think he had the vocal stamina for an outburst like that._

"What's the matter, mutt?" said Kaiba with particular venom. "Didn't catch it the first time? Do you need it repeated more slowly?"

"Aw, shut the _hell_ up," snarled Jou, coming to his senses. "Jesus! It's not like I have a damn choice." He doubled over, clutching at his stomach as the pain blossomed through his body. "_Fuck!_" He glared up at the ice demon, grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket. "I want to fucking go home! I don't want any part of this! I saved you from that angel! Now fucking take me _home_—"

"—to a sister who won't be able to see you?" said Kaiba smoothly. He pulled the crumpled contract from his pocket and handed it to the boy, his features twisting into an ugly smile.

Jou read with growing horror. "Third and final, Jounouchi Katsuya is property of Seto Kaiba for the duration of the latter party's travels. At any attempt to violate the above-stated terms, this contract and all its agreements will be made null and void." There was his own signature near the bottom. Felt marker. Black. _No. . .no, that's not what it said before!_ "That's not what it said before!" he shouted at the demon. "That's not what it said! You did something to it, you—you—_what the fuck_ _did you do!_"

Growling, he took the contract and made to tear it in half. It was like a sheet of metal; he dropped it with a curse and looked at his bleeding fingertips. For the first time since the beginning of the journey, he felt a frustration so extreme that tears welled up in his eyes. "_Dammit_!" he screamed, lunging at the demon with fists raised.

"That's quite enough," said Otogi with authority, stepping between them and catching Jou's hands as easily as if they had been held limply at the boy's sides. "Calm down, Jounouchi. You can't do anything."

"No," Jou moaned, sagging. "Dammit! Dammit. . ."

Kaiba's eyes narrowed as he watched the boy snuffling in vain, trying to keep back his tears. "Yes," he said quietly, and smirked.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Ryou was dreaming. It was afternoon in his mind and the sun was shining relentlessly over a bloody battleground. Light reflected off the brass and bronze of armor, the metal of swords, the porcelain faces of the angels. There was fire in their eyes and their hands; like the sun, they burned with heat. His eyes examined the first ranks—the braver of the elite—flicked from scimitar to scimitar, the mechanical wings, the glassy expressions. Behind them were massed the lower castes, faces distorted with anger and apprehension. Some were winged and haloed; others bare-backed and bare-headed, clutching their weapons.

There were demons all around him, a motley assembly—most looked rather human, thought Ryou, but he could see some red-scaled individuals, a horned demon, one with raven wings. The officers were ringed all around; there were flag bearers, demonic mages. Those in the back—the new recruits—seemed eager, maybe scared, but the demons all around Ryou had a weary, hardened look. These were his companions, that had been with him those many wretched months. They were tired of the war, but he—he was barely sated.

The demon beside him, a blonde, shifted, licked his lips, adjusted his aura with six quick pulses of magic. Unease rippled down the ranks in thick waves, adding to the stifling heat of the sun. Ryou felt unreasonably detached. His palms itched and he flexed his hands.

The blonde demon swore under his breath. "_Shaitan_."

Ryou knew, inexplicably, that the angelic mages would come at them before the foot soldiers, that there would be shockwaves of magic as the two sides clashed. He had seen it all before, somehow. The demons that would die and the blood that would coat the ground. . .he could hear his own voice, screaming, _this isn't finished, you fucking angels!_

None of it mattered now. His soul was eerily calm. "_Azhar,_" he said softly, and the blonde beside him jumped.

"_What is it?_" The other demon—Azhar—looked wary, eyes narrowed suspiciously. He had said a name, too, but for some reason it had flitted out of Ryou's hearing. . ._who am I?_ But at that moment he realized he did not care—

_You'll stay by me, won't you?_ he had meant to say, but there came a shout—and then the roar of a hundred thousand throats, the high sharp incantations of the mages. Azhar looked panicked; Ryou's mind erupted with excitement. _It's begun!_ The angels were moving toward them in a mass of sun and fire; the angelic mages had their hands outstretched. There were screams. Ryou felt himself being borne forward, wild laughter in his throat.

Azhar was at his side, sword in one hand, his other hand outstretched and facing the angels. There was an explosion of black fire among the angelic mages; flames consumed two angelic foot soldiers. Immediately, two more stepped forward to take their place. More demons rushed forward, some howling threats, others grim and silent, all armed. Soon Ryou was in the thick of it, fighting back to back with the blonde demon. The angels milled around him and he stepped on the arm of a fallen comrade as he sparred with an eight-winged elite. _Oh god I'm going to get speared!_ But his head was moving to the side, dodging the flaming blade—it passed before his eye and he felt his eyelashes sizzle—he was parrying…

"_Clear me a path_," said Ryou quietly, cleaning the flat of his sword with a handful of the dead elite's feathers.

For a moment, Azhar only looked at him, as if he had forgotten the battle that was in full force around them. "_I'm trusting you here,_" he said finally. "_Don't throw away our lives._" Then, wiping his blood-flecked face, the blonde ran forward, suddenly six-armed and wielding six swords, deadly silent.

Ryou let his fingers loosen and heard the faint thud of his sword as it fell against the angel's body. His mind panicked—and then he was calm, so very calm._ I won't need it._ Hands open by his sides, he followed Azhar as if there were no battle raging around him, no demons dead and dying on the ground under his feet. There was only the humming in his ears, the churning of his blood—the blood around him. It pulsed with his heart, beat for beat—

—a lower caste angel rushed at him, only to be cut down by the windmill of Azhar's blades—

They had broken through the angelic lines and were standing among the mages. For a split second they stared at one another. Seized with a bizarre exhilaration, Ryou shouted, "_Azhar—stand by me!_" Azhar ran towards him as the first few spells erupted their way, and Ryou did not run as his mind was telling him to—he was entirely calm, he was barely breathing, his blood was curdling in his veins—_Run, run!_ Ryou screamed, but his legs would not move, and the contract was sealed anyway—Azhar shuddered and cursed, _what have you done! Are you mad, are you mad—_

Ryou could hear the name—_his _name; it was the smallest of whispers _(are you mad)_ and then it was gone, but he was still reaching after it; no, he was rooted to the spot, he couldn't move—he was no longer thinking. . .

"_You'll be my first,_" said Ryou to the nearest mage, a white-robed, white-haired male. "_Come!_" Ryou threw his hands forward, and then the world exploded.

"Oh, god!" he cried, coming to with a shout.

Bakura pulled away with a smile. "Merrrow. . .am I that good, soul-boy?" he said, chuckling. Ryou, holding his side and wincing with the pain, came out of the dream slowly—the bloody visions became porous and evaporated altogether, the burning in his hands disappeared. Gradually he became aware of Bakura's weight pressing down on him, the cool fingertips pushing beneath his sweater, the tingling of his skin. The searchlights, gleaming through the small slit of a window, cast a faint blue glow in the darkened room. Ryou could hear pounding on the floors below—ANKH. It was past midnight; he was sure.

"_Itai!_" Bakura had taken a handful of his hair and pulled. Rubbing his scalp resentfully, Ryou glared up at the demon. "What was that for?"

Bakura frowned. "Pay attention to me," he said, somewhat plaintively. "I snuck out _just_ to see you and Mana will beat me black and blue when she finds that I've gone. And," he added, in a breathy little whisper, "you looked so delicious I couldn't resist. I've outfoxed the sorceress and braved the tower all for you—don't I deserve something, my pretty? Hmm?"

Ryou found the notion of Mana beating anyone black and blue quite ridiculous, but as he opened his mouth to tell Bakura this, the demon began sliding his hands towards the waistband of Ryou's trousers. The words got lodged somewhere in Ryou's throat and he made an alarmed croaking noise. "Nrgh. . .!"

"Yes, that's quite what I thought," said Bakura matter-of-factly. He kissed Ryou, letting his lips linger. "You've been avoiding me. . .soul-boy. . ._Ryou_. . ."

Ryou swallowed, squirming under the stern red gaze. "No, it's. . .there's been so much to do around the castle. . .repairs. . .and Mana said. . .I, uh, I wanted to h. . ._oh_. . ." He forgot what he had been saying and brought both arms up around the demon's back, pulling the other closer.

Bakura was almost humming, but his eyes remained serious. "No, tell me," he said, slipping his hands further down.

Ryou groaned. "I have. . .nightmares," he whispered, eyes fluttering shut. He could still see the bloody battleground, a gory afterimage against his eyelids—the explosion of light and the redness that followed, the itching in his hands. _That wasn't me. . .it wasn't me. _"In my night. . .mare, I'm killing people—so many—and. . .always after I. . .come near you. . .mm. . .but I. . ." _I can't stop. . ._

_I can't. . ._

"You poor, disturbed child," said Bakura with a laugh, catching Ryou's earlobe between his teeth. "Nightmares, eh? I know a remedy for nightmares." At that moment, a searchlight shone full through the window, illuminating the scene—Bakura lay next to him, hands wandering, bloody eyes gleaming, smiling like a satisfied cat.

Ryou was panting now, gripping Bakura's shoulders so tightly that his fingertips had gone yellow-white. "What's. . .that?" he managed.

Bakura's smile was positively wicked. "Why, that's easy," he said, leaning close. "Don't go to sleep—I'll help."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Shaadi closed his suitcase with a snap, turning to the demoness beside him. "Well, Isis," he said, smiling ruefully, "I'll be leaving you now."

"Hellfire guide you," said Isis briskly, handing him six rolls of parchment.

Shaadi, holding suitcase and scrolls, pulled her into an awkward one-armed embrace. "It's been difficult, I know," he said, squeezing her shoulder and losing one parchment in the process. _I love you. _"Your brother. . ."

Isis, who had been leaning into him, moved abruptly away. "You'll do nothing to my brother while I breathe, Shaadi," she said, lips pressing together and whitening.

_Oh, Shaitan, not _againhe thought. "Your brother, I've been informed, has stormed Pegasus' castle and stolen his property, severely wounding two of Pegasus' closest retainers in the process! Croquet, the mage, was nearly killed! The Council has learned many things about his involvement in the last war—many of them rather hair-raising—"

Her nostrils were flared. "Oh for hell's sake," she snapped at him, eyes gone steely. "He risked his life for our underworld in that war. You've no right whatsoever to hold him accountable. I don't know what he's doing, maundering around Pegasus' castle as he is, but he knows he'd better have a blessed good reason for what he's done or he'll have hell to pay—from _me_! _Do not even try _to coax me into turning him over to you!"

"Isis—"

"He's no berserker," she continued, cold and furious. "You knew him before the war, Shaadi. I can_not_ believe that you would allow yourself to be persuaded to act against the Ishtal family. You know it yourself—you know he was not the one who—"

Shaadi dropped everything and grabbed her roughly by the arms, feeling a bit of a pang at his loss of control. _I've raised a hand against her. _"For Shaitan's sake, Isis!" he said, more sharply than he had intended. He softened his voice. "Believe me—I am grateful for your protection—your father's protection—for the kindness the Ishtal dynasty has shown me. But your brother's actions are against him—Shaitan, Isis! If you continue to protect him, you'll be harboring a fugitive. The Big Five—"

Isis became positively glacial. "The Big Five are no threat to me," she spat. "I'd advise you to control your hounds. And if your Council fears my brother's power, they would do well to remember who taught him everything he knows!"

Shaadi glowered. "I don't want to argue with you, Isis." _Stubborn woman!_

"My brother is the last of the Ishtal line," said Isis, emphasizing every word with the snap of breaking ice. "He is my blood. What's more, I refuse to become a puppet of the Twelve—" she dove in for the kill "—as _you_ have."

"I don't want to see you dead!" exclaimed Shaadi. The ornaments that Isis wore were beginning to jangle, as they always did when strong magic was in the air—and between his angry power and hers, there was magic aplenty. He stooped and gathered up his documents, his briefcase, crushing the papers in his hurry to leave, before he lost it entirely and began causing things to explode. His lower body began dissolving into pixels. "And if you'd reach back into that stubborn memory of yours, you'd recall that it was a certain Shaadi who taught _you_ everything _you_ know!"

Isis looked wild. "How I want to strangle you!" she shouted, hands actually clenching, and the baubles plaited in her hair began bursting systematically, raining them both with bits of colored glass—

—then he was gone to Arachne, the glare of her incensed blue eyes burned into his brain, his face and hands scratched and bleeding.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

When Shaadi had gone, Isis collapsed onto the nearest divan and buried her head in her hands, not out of hopelessness but white-hot anger. Tiny fragments of glass rained to the floor with every movement of her hair—every breath, and she heard a tell-tale tinkling that meant at least one porcelain plate had shattered back in the kitchen. _Breathe, breathe, Ishtal,_ she told herself. _It's no good and the last thing we need is to destroy all of Madar's best china. You know exactly what she'd have to say about that._

All the same, how dare he! How _dare_ Shaadi try to cajole her into abandoning her brother—the last of the line? Shaadi was old—so much older than all of them, older perhaps than the Ishtal family itself, and he was finally going senile. He knew of the old magicks—_knew _and _recognized _the power that made a berserker and a renegade mage, and he knew that Marikku was neither! Somewhere behind her, another plate smashed; what sounded like vast explosion lit the west side of the castle, and Isis decided suddenly that maybe destroying Madar's best china would be the best option in the situation.

_Better her china than the whole of the city._

So, rather more calmly than she felt, she rose and walked into the family room, ignoring the gloomy face that a considerably younger Shaadi was giving her from the portrait hanging over the mantle. Isis eyed the ornate vase opposite her and gave it a curt nod. _You'll do._

She flung all her fury at it, every last bit of her magic. There was scarcely a sound before the entire vase crumbled into fine white dust; the smaller jars around it blew apart in the resulting shockwave.

Shaadi _knew_ the real culprit—they all did, they of the older days. Did they fear Bakura still? His power was gone, broken into as many pieces as the jars around her. The demon was all but wasting away! He had been nothing but bones the last she saw him, bleeding somehow from gashes that would not heal, every rib visible as his servant bound up the wounds. "Et tu, Isis?" he'd said, smiling winsomely, when she'd given in to her more caring instincts and insisted that he start eating and drinking something other than vodka. "You know I hate the stuff."

He had been powerful in his day—but his day was long past. And yet…Isis thought back to the huge flare she had felt fourteen days ago, so close to her current residence—a magical disturbance that had literally knocked her off her feet. The magic had been old, summoning a thick taste of myrrh into the back of her mouth. Cloistered as she was in her brother's castle, she had gotten news from the servants—to their knowledge, no one had been harmed. But the power of the strike. . .

_Perhaps they have some right to fear him, after all._

_But not Marikku—not my brother. They may be the best of friends, Marikku and Bakura, but the connection goes not one step further. Shaadi is a fool to think I would betray my blood._

_I hate to be kept in the dark like this!_ She was pacing now, her long robes sweeping back and forth across the floor, her hands folded behind her back. Her visions, though always accurate, had been irritatingly few in the past few weeks. Locked away to avoid the fighting, she was, essentially, deaf, blind, and mute, reduced to nothing more than a dependant of her brother, though it was in fact she who was caring for him. And now, as Shaadi's visits had brought with them more and more frequent, violent arguments, it seemed that her brother's residence was no longer a safe place for her to be. _What is that idiot brother of mine doing, that the Council would actually _monitor_ his actions?_

She remembered then the large dark hand that had taken hers and guided it through what would become the first casting circle of many, and sighed heavily. _Shaadi would not worry for naught._

Her anger sufficiently cooled, she went in search of a familiar mirror—one that would allow her to contact her brother and find out what in Shaitan's name was going on.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Jounouchi slid into bed feeling filthy—and actually caring. It had been days since he'd last bathed and his hair was slick with sweat and grease, clumping against his scalp and the back of his neck in a sullen, heavy mass. But it was heaven—scratchy, stiff mattress and everything. He sighed and was about to close his eyes when he realized that the vampire was no longer in the room with him.

"O-Otogi?" he said, wincing at the tremor in his voice. _And I thought you were the tough-guy, Katsuya? Sound like a fucking girl._

Kaiba materialized from the shadows. "The vampire's gone," he said flatly.

Jounouchi looked away from him, suddenly nervous. "What do you mean, gone?" he said, throat gone dry. "Went out for a snack kind of gone—or ditched us kind of gone?"

"Who knows?" said Kaiba, leaning against the windowsill, arms folded. His silhouette was black against the wooden frame, casting a long, crooked shadow along the uneven wooden floor. Jou sat up, staring at the shadow as it fell across the foot of his bed. "If he's not back at sun up, we leave without him."

"That boy—" began Jou, and then stopped, heart thundering in his chest. _Otogi's not here to stop him if he tries to kill me—_

Kaiba was looking at him, Jounouchi knew, even if he couldn't see the demon's face. He could see that dry expression, the sardonic twist of the mouth; the cold eyes were burning through him even in the darkness. "What about that boy?" said the demon, absently, with no hint of finality in his tone.

Jou swallowed, feeling braver. "That boy that I saw is your brother. And that woman—"

"Yesss," said Kaiba, snakelike, moving away from the windowsill so that he loomed over Jou, an imposing blackness. "That boy is my brother—the heir to the satanic throne. He is my world."

Jounouchi half-snorted and was about to say that incest wasn't the prettiest thing he'd ever come across, but Kaiba being a demon maybe customs were different—and then he realized that if he even mentioned it he would be dead, but maybe Kaiba didn't mean it that way at all, maybe he meant it in a brotherly sort of way, just like Shizuka was Jounouchi's entire focus. . .how Jou's world was the world that spun around Shizuka and her smile.

"From childhood I've been trained to guard him," continued Kaiba mechanically. He moved yet closer, speaking to the top of Jounouchi's head. "My cousin—the Crown Prince—is of impure blood. The throne could never be his; we knew it from the moment of his birth. My brother is Shaitan and will lead us."

The voice filled Jou's mind; a reprimand, soft and urgent, with an angry undercurrent. _You mustn't. The boy is Shaitan and he will lead us and you must not fill his head with such nonsense, do you understand; do you understand it, Set?_

"He disappeared four months ago," said Kaiba.

"So why did—do—you need me?" said Jou, pushing the covers aside, swinging his legs out and standing, shivering a bit as his bare feet hit the night-cooled floorboards. He looked up into the dark patch that was the demon's face, more aware of the difference in their height than ever before. "Why _me_, specifically?"

He remembered the day at the school gate, the impossibly tall, blue-eyed—boy? Man?—standing near the road, trench coat impeccably white, briefcase shining silver. . .

Kaiba's voice came from somewhere near his ear and he shivered again, jerking away. "Don't be a fool, mutt," said the demon contemptuously, breathing against his neck. "I didn't need _you_."

Jou staggered. "What?" he said faintly. Then, more loudly: "_What?_"

"You were convenient," said Kaiba mercilessly. "You were the most desperate out of the group I'd been observing. You alone signed the contract. Without a second thought, you gave me your _soul_. The deal is done, mutt. Your sister has her sight, and you are _mine_." He laughed, a scornful chuckle. "Were you thinking that you had some sort of importance to the whole mission? That I chose you for some particular shining trait, other than your glaring lack of common sense?"

"You son of a bitch," snarled Jou, but he didn't go beyond that. He turned deliberately away and slipped under the blankets again, huddling in on himself. Heat was all around him, but Kaiba was an icy presence at his back. "I don't understand. . ."

"There are plenty of things you don't understand, mutt," said Kaiba.

_. . .why you hate me._

He contented himself with a smart-ass smile, feeling the rough prickle of the pillow against his lips. "Didn't pick me for a reason my ass. I'll bet you're hard for me right now. Goodnight, motherfucker."

He half-expected the demon to lunge at him and obliterate his existence with a jagged piece of ice, but Kaiba did not move. There was no stinging retort. For a long time afterward, Jou, blood pumped too full of adrenaline to sleep, could hear the demon breathing somewhere behind him—slow, shuddering breaths—as he kept guard near the window.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

"Ryou—look, can you finish tidying up here?" asked Mana, straightening and adjusting her apron. "I have to get back to ANKH." Mana had been looking incredibly haggard since the soul-slaves had made their escape, no doubt from having to clean most of the castle with her own magic. There were cinders in her hair and purpling bruises under her eyes; she was paler and more translucent than usual. Ryou and Sara had been recruited to help with four times their normal share of housework, and even Bakura had managed to lift a finger here and there, albeit with many protests, to restore the castle to its former glory. Of course, with Bakura, one sweep of a finger was all that was really needed to get everything nice and _shiny-shiny-shiny_, as he put it.

Ryou, the feathery end of his duster caught between his teeth, nodded at her. "'Ure 'ing," he grunted, and sneezed. They were again in Bakura's study, where it had been discovered that another pile of incinerated books had been missed in the original cleaning sweep.

Mana gave him a wan smile and vanished in a blur of pixels.

Ryou found the step-stool and pulled it over to the bookshelf, which was yet again covered in fine gray ash. Spitting out a few mottled feathers, he began dusting furiously, sneezing uncontrollably all the while. After a particularly violent sneeze that nearly knocked him off the stool, he remembered Bakura's red bandana.

It was lying across the demon's desk about an arm's length away. He could probably just reach for it—

"Oh, _no_—"

The bandana was further than he had anticipated. The stool teetered momentarily on one leg, and then Ryou went crashing into the desk, striking his head on a corner and upsetting a box of ink phials and scrolls of parchment as his arms went out in a desperate attempt to catch on to something. Minutes later, it seemed, he was spread-eagled across the study floor, duster still tickling his nose, head throbbing, drenched in purple ink. The manuscripts that Bakura had so painstakingly rewritten were in the air, slowly drifting down where they would inevitably land in the purple puddles. . .

"Oh no, oh no, oh _no_. . ." babbled Ryou in a panic, struggling to get to his feet and failing. The room whirled around him. "Bakura is going to _kill_ me and have me for his dinner. . ."

When he finally came to his hands and knees in the ink beside the soaking papers, he realized that the parchment scrolls were all blank, save the last, which had thankfully landed on the chair. Wiping his hands on the duster before picking it up, Ryou scanned it once and then moved to set it reverently back on Bakura's desk—

_Wait._

His eyes moved back to the parchment. Written there in a rather cramped hand—not Bakura's spidery script—were several bulleted paragraphs. _'Demonic berserker; destroyed angelic legions in Great War between the upper and lower worlds. (Mundane worlds not involved.) Thought of as some great weapon of the demonic castes. Obliterated whole legions of angelics, appeared eight months after start of war. Vanished during the first of the four final battles. . .demise unknown. Speculation: Destroyed by his own power? Reappearance confirmed by—'_ The next two lines had been scribbled out. Then, in all capitals: _'HOW CAN HE BE ALIVE? We need to research more. Mahaado's librayr si apossbile sruoce. . .'_

Toward the middle of the page the letters had begun blurring into a miasma of purple. Ryou set the parchment down with shaking hands, feeling the initial pressure of a migraine sweeping his brain. _Did I inhale too much dust? I feel—_

And he was flat on his back again, the ink wet and strangely warm against his skin. The tiny study walls seemed to be closing around him, though that was hardly possible. . .

He could hear, somewhat dimly, his mother's voice, coming to his ears as if through a thick haze of sludge. _Yaten, I don't know how to tell you. . .I've lied to you. . ._

Gray forms were moving before him, gradually sharpening: his mother and father, dressed in mourning black. . .

_What do you mean, Clara?_ said his father, soft and urgent.

Ryou remembered peering at them from behind the door, but he had been young and lost interest, despite his father's grave expression, the tears in his mother's eyes. And Amane was gone and he didn't know what that meant, had she gotten angry with him and gone to live somewhere else? Would she ever come back and play with him again? Mumsy hadn't been able to tell him. He hadn't seen his sister for a week. . .absurdly, he thought she might still be sleeping in her room; perhaps he ought to go wake her. . .

Amane was screaming in his ears. _Ryou, Ryou, oh _God_ what are you doing, Ryou? _She was hysterical, beating on his chest, and. . .ah, how old was he? Not much more than six or seven when she'd died—or gone away. . .and he was running after his mother as she hovered like a bird, shouting at her, waving his arms like a madman. _"Don't fly! Don't fly, Mum!"_ The blackness was swimming in front of his eyes, and suddenly he could see Bakura leaning over him quite clearly, lit blue by the searchlights. There was that predatory smile, the wandering hands. . ._Soul-boy. . ._

Bakura _was_ leaning over him, poking him curiously. "Why is it, soul-boy," he said, cocking his head to one side, "that you have unfailingly managed to be unconscious the past three times—four, now—that I've come across you?"

The long white hands were moving over his face, pressing against his jaw, sliding upwards.

"Ouch," said Ryou, groggily.

"Merrrow," hummed Bakura, earning another "Ow!" from Ryou as he gave the boy's forehead a second prod. "Shaitan, soul-boy! You've got a bruise the size of an egg up here."

Ryou tried to sit up, but collapsed boneless against the ground. His neck felt like jelly; his head was heavy, sinking into the floor. "B—Master Bakura," he whispered, rather pathetically. The demon grinned mischievously and hauled him up, and Ryou peeled away from the floor with yet another yelp as several hairs separated from his scalp, tumbling forward like a marionette with its strings cut. He had come unstuck from the dry ink on the floor—the ink that, as he had remembered, had been pooled around him.

Bakura was stroking Ryou's hair, brushing it back from his face and tucking it behind his ears. "You're covered in ink," said the demon softly, deftly picking the small dried smears from Ryou's hair and sweater. He scowled. "You ruined my desk. You ruined my _bandana_."

Ryou's eyes, roaming over the demon's shoulder, found the red bandana, now stiff with dried ink and hopelessly purple. "Oh, no," he breathed, feeling his lips trembling as he spoke. "I'm sorry, I—"

"Didn't mean to, I'll expect," said Bakura darkly, and Ryou refocused on his face. The demon's eyes were lined heavily with black, and he had tied a red scarf around his head. There were several thick gold rings in each ear, and Ryou saw the ornately embroidered eye patch hanging on a thin silver string around the demon's neck. It occurred to him at that moment that he must have been lying there for quite some time, if the ink had dried and Bakura was dressed like he'd just come up from ANKH. . ."Everyone has it in for my poor bandana," Bakura was saying petulantly. "They're all plotting against—"

"Bakura," said Ryou quickly. "Master Bakura, I mean. What. . .time is it?"

"Three past two," said Bakura promptly, not looking at all put out that Ryou had interrupted him. "In the morning," he added, kissing the lump on Ryou's forehead. "Now, soul-boy, tell me how you destroyed a half of my study."

"I was cleaning," said Ryou, in a very small voice. "And then I fell—"

"That," said Bakura, nodding his head at the overturned stool and the mess of papers on the floor, "is quite evident, my darling."

Ryou flushed. "I'm sorry," he said again, feeling another headache like the rumblings of a distant storm. He groped around for the feather duster and began getting to his feet. "I'll clean everything up right away—"

Bakura's hand was instantly on the back of Ryou's neck, drawing him in. "No," said the demon, rising with him. "Meow, soul-boy. . .Consider it done."

"Mmph!" said Ryou in surprise, because Bakura was kissing him and there wasn't much else to be said. Through the haze that was quickly filling his mind, he thought he heard a sound like fingers snapping, and Bakura seemed to sag briefly against him, but only for a moment. The ankh around his neck hummed, but he ignored it; there were, naturally, more pressing matters at hand. Speaking of which—Bakura's hand was sticky as it wound and twisted through his hair and Ryou felt heat coiling low in his stomach. _Oh. . ._Half-gasping, he tried to move closer, but Bakura was already slipping away.

Ryou stared, breathing hard. The ink had evaporated, seemingly into thin air, and all the scrolls had disappeared. The desk was once again immaculately clean—as was the rest of the study. The fine gray layer of dust and ash had vanished; even the older books looked as though they had been purchased the day before, glossy bindings glittering in the light. The study was slowly filling with the smell of fresh parchment. _What—how! _Ryou's first thoughts were indignant. _He can do all that with a single hand, and yet he leaves Mana and Sara to clean everything?_

He let out his breath in a whoosh and opened his mouth to speak—and stopped cold.

"Not bad," said Bakura, speaking almost to himself. He, too, was panting, lips swollen, pink in the cheeks. The look that he gave Ryou, though, was nothing like that shining approval from the night before; no, it was decidedly cooler—there was something appraising, calculating, gleaming in his eyes. Ryou suppressed a shiver, feeling vaguely that he had done something horribly wrong.

Bakura's smile was hard. "No, not bad at all."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

"We have to go back to Dahlia," said Yuugi.

They were sitting in the same tavern room where Yuugi had lost his wings and grown an entirely new pair—now he sat, perched on the chair by the fire like some large, diabolic bird, dark and entirely too adorable for his own good. They were both recovering from the shock of the Fall; Yami was cross-legged on the floor, poring over a map. For an hour they had not spoken, only listened to the sound of their breaths, soft sighs going in and out. _Yes, we are both still breathing. . .but for how long?_

Yami looked up at him, red eyes—the eyes of his bloodline—despairing. "Yuugi, do you hear yourself? How could we do such a thing?"

Yuugi was firm. "_Hae_," he said quietly, staring into the flames. "What other options do we have? I've Fallen—the upperworld won't take me back. I'm as much a son of hell as you are. There are demons who will support you, back in Dahlia. The one with white hair—the one you took us to, in the beginning—" Wild hope was blossoming in his eyes. "He helped us flee, and he will help us again, surely he wi—"

"I don't want the throne!" Yami burst out, crumpling the map and hurling it away from him. He looked at Yuugi's toes, still small and childlike, curled over the edge of the chair. "I don't want it. How could I take it back? I'm of Shaitan's line, oh, yes, but I'm the bastard heir, the result of a war that destroyed our world so many years ago! And who will follow Shaitan's bastard son,_ someone who is 'surely more angel than demon!'_" He was shouting, face flushed with anger and embarrassment.

"Yami. . ."

"They'll kill me, even if I do abdicate! They want me dead; they'll stop at nothing!" He was breathing raggedly, feeling more and more like a little child in the throes of a particularly violent tantrum. "We need to send you back, Yuugi! There'll be another war if we don't. Another war—"

"Yami. . ." said Yuugi again. He shook his head. "They will not take me from you; you'd never let them." He rose from the chair and came to Yami, walking just as Yuugi had always walked. But the wings—the wings were black. Yami sobbed and shied away from them. "I cannot heal anything anymore," said the angel, wrapping his arms around the Crown Prince's shoulders, bringing the black wings up around them both. "But I can cast a blight, and I can poison, and—" he trembled here, hesitated for a moment "—and I can kill. I will kill to keep you safe. And we will go to Dahlia."

Yami gave a weak smile against the hot wave of shame that coursed through his body. He curled up against the angel's smaller body, buried his nose in the crook of Yuugi's neck and inhaled. "Dahlia, then. Bakura's castle."

_We'll see Bakura again,_ he thought grimly. _And if the other factions don't do it, it'll be Bakura who will have the satisfaction of cutting our throats._

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Otogi reappeared some time after sunrise, swathed from head to toe in a coarse brown traveler's cloak and clutching several packages. Jou, who had awakened to the rather ominous sight of a masked and possibly armed stranger standing at the foot of his bed, and who had seen the green eyes glimmering from out of the depths of the hood, let out a hoarse shout—no, nothing girly about it at all—and leapt to his feet, yelling for Kaiba.

"I didn't know who you were; what the hell did you expect me to do!" he spluttered a few moments later, totally disgruntled, as Otogi, howling with laughter, dropped the parcels and the cloak on the bed and collapsed to his knees.

"The look. . .on. . .your. . .face!" giggled the vampire, holding his stomach.

"Stop laughing!" said Jou sharply, flushing to the ears. "What the hell did you expect me to do? I'd like to see your reaction if you woke up to a fucking weirdo standing over you! We didn't know if you were coming back or not, so how the hell was I supposed to know it was you? And stop laughing!"

Otogi wiped at the tears of mirth in his eyes, still chortling. "And you. . .called. . .for. . .the demon! To come and protect you? As if he would! Ha_ha!_"

"Shut. . .shut up!" snarled Jou. His face was burning.

There was movement in the shadowed hall, and then Kaiba was standing beside them, arms folded. The demon looked _tired_, paler than usual in the growing light. He cleared his throat. "I see you've decided to return to us, vampire." He nodded at Otogi, half-frowning.

Otogi's laughter slowly died away. "Ah, yes," he said. "Good morning, Kaiba-boy!" He tossed a parcel at Jou and handed another to Kaiba, smiling. "You reminded me—I brought presents!"

"Sweet." Jou, who had gotten an empty beer can in the gut his last birthday, gave the package a shake. He had been expecting a weapon of sorts and the nonexistent weight of the packet took him by surprise. Curiosity ignited, he ripped the package open and blinked at the black felt eye patch that fell into his lap, followed by a colorful assortment of silken scarves, two curved rubber cones, and—a tail? Yes, it was, and a bit too much like a donkey's for Jounouchi's comfort. "Otogi?" he said, pivoting to face the vampire. "What the hell?"

"Disguises!" said Otogi brightly. "Dahlia is a big city. I'm sure there will be wanted posters. Six times the population of this little town, ten thousand times the chance of being recognized. We, of course, want to minimize those chances. These might help. There was a lovely pink dress and corset combination that would have suited you, pup, but I thought you might appreciate the tail more."

"Uh, yeah," said Jou, slipping the eye patch on and squinting with his 'good' eye. "Thanks."

"There you are, Kaiba-boy," said the vampire, as Kaiba held a hooded cape of fiery red velvet to his body and raised an eyebrow. "Comes with a ringmaster's whip. Kaiba's traveling circus troupe, what do you think?"

"Brilliantly dumb, vampire," snapped Kaiba. Without another word, he handed the cape to Otogi and, snatching the traveler's cloak up from the bed, stalked out of the room.

"Not really a morning person, that one," said Otogi, watching Kaiba's retreating back. He shrugged. "Ah, well, neither am I, really. Sun's a terrible thing for a vampire. I got altogether too much of it while I was in Egypt. Seems like it happened yesterday. Pretty recent for an old man like me," he added. "I'd say it might have even happened in your lifetime, pup."

Jou was fingering the cones. "What are these?"

The vampire was grinning. "Horns, puppy. Latest rage in Dahlia. I thought they'd look nice with the tail."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

A/N: And that, my friends, is Faust9. Yes, that was certainly a long delay. Look for the next update around the end of May or the beginning of June. And thank you _so very much_ for continuing to read this story, despite all evidence that I had indeed curled up somewhere and died. I hope I've. . .sort of. . .rewarded your patience.

_Faust10: They are gathering in Dahlia. . ._


	10. pro patria mori

FAUST  
yuugiou fanfiction  
ryuujitsu & co.  
chapter ten: pro patria mori

Disclaimer: Saying we own Yuugiou is like saying Yoshiki is a woman. Sometimes we may think so, but it's just not true.

A/N: For the record, I started Faust10 not three seconds after posting Faust9, so no matter when the chapter comes out, I definitely started it on time! Well, it seems like there's going to be a gathering in Dahlia. . .will it happen this chapter? Will everyone live happily ever after? Will Ryuujitsu get off her ass and finish this story before the end of this year? So many questions. . .

ITFTC:

"**W**orld **T**rade **F**ederation, man—**W**orld **T**rade **F**ederation"

--'wtf' as expanded by miss melon

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

The man's face was familiar. It was dark and finely-boned; the eyes were piercingly blue. Yami had seen that face often as a child—the same man, reporting to his father, lowering his turbaned head with the rest of the Council as if they were of one body and one mind. Startled, he drew away, pulling his hood more tightly over his ears. He had been hoping to duck away and move up the path, just another pair of demons heading to the Dahlian market, but it was too late.

"My prince," said Shaadi, bowing low.

Yami took a step back, trying to hide Yuugi from view. "Councilor Shaadi," he said, nervously but not without anger. "Have you come to kill me?"

He did not ask, _How did you find me? _though the question was broiling in his mind. It was obvious to him that Shaadi, so powerful a demon, would have his methods of searching. . .and destroying, if that was his mission. Yami could not believe that Shaadi would have willingly traded in his Councilor's robes for an assassin's, but the world had been changing. . .

Shaadi did not reply. The Councilor was looking over his head at Yuugi, scrutinizing the angel, eyes roaming over the black wings. For some reason this infuriated Yami, and he grabbed Yuugi's hand tightly in his own, squaring his shoulders. "Councilor Shaadi," he said again, forcing a civil tone. "I'll ask it once more. Have you come to kill me?"

Shaadi returned his gaze to Yami with a slow and insolent head-to-toe sweep of his eyes. "Not at this moment, my prince." He looked at Yuugi's wings. "And this is the angel." It was not a question.

Yami swallowed and steeled his nerves. _If he were going to kill us, he would have done it already._ "Yes," he said, and waved his arm vaguely at the black wings. "As you can see, he's Fallen. You're not taking him from me; there's no point to it. The angelics will never want him back." He was being harsh and could feel it from the flinch that traveled down Yuugi's arm and into his own hand, but this was true—Yuugi had said it himself.

"There, my prince, you've made a slight miscalculation," said Shaadi, face kept carefully blank. "The angelics do want him. They've been sending search parties into the underworld for weeks now in a steady stream, setting up camps. His disappearance has given the whole of the upperworld license to enter our realms. They'll continue this pretense for as long as it suits them. They may or may not be truly searching for your princeling there, but his so-called abduction has once again brought our two worlds to the brink of war."

Yami staggered, turned to Yuugi. "Princeling," he said. Yuugi's eyes were wide. "Yuugi?"

Shaadi's smile was cold. "Like father, like son, it seems," he said. "Isis has told me that we will meet again in Dahlia. Until then." He was gone; Yami reached toward the vanishing pixels as if he could catch a handful out of the air.

"I'm not," said Yuugi shakily, when the last of Shaadi's pixels had faded. He sat down heavily on the dirt path, drawing his knees to his chest, and Yami sat down beside him. "My mother married a greater noble, so there might be old blood. . .but, I'm not. . .not a prince, not like you. My grandfather died in the Great War," he added quietly, "but he was a shopkeeper, of middling caste. . .I've told you no lies, _Hae_."

Yami listened to the voice that had lost all hints of its lilting accent and said nothing, processing Shaadi's words.

"'Like father, like son,' he said," muttered Yami, brow furrowing. "And you, a princeling. Ah!" He leapt to his feet as though he'd been stung and began pacing, hands behind his back. Yuugi watched him, half amused, half bewildered. "Say you're a princeling," he said. "Hypothetically-speaking. But if that's what Shaadi meant—if I'm right, then—my mother must have been an angelic of relatively high birth. A royal, even. That would explain the war fought to bring her back to the upperworld. Oh, that would explain everything! Yuugi!"

"Yes?" said Yuugi with a tentative smile.

Yami's own smile was broad with the glee that comes from solving a particularly trying puzzle. "There have been unions between the angelics and demons before in history—marriages of alliance, to restore the peace! Always of noble blood, but, Yuugi, don't you see? If my mother was a minor princess of your people, then I'm no 'half-blood bastard,' as it's been put!"

Yuugi was nodding, still somewhat bemused. "There are blood pacts that tie all the ancient clans together, demonic and angelic, yes."

Yami grinned now, fierce and unrestrained. "If that's the case, I'm as legitimate an heir as my cousin—and legally more entitled to the throne _because _I am the son of Shaitan! And _that_ is why the factions have been trying to have me killed. _That_ is why I have been so prosecuted since my father's death! I _am _the true heir to Shaitan's throne. My blood is pure, and to ensure that I never come to power, they need me dead.

"What they don't understand," he continued, equally triumphantly, "is that I don't want the throne. Not even if I found out that I could legitimately rule as Shaitan. They want to eliminate all chances of a power shift, and that means eliminating me. It's no use convincing them; even if I were to abdicate, there would still be a chance that they would have me assassinated, just to be sure. I don't think the upperworld would accept me readily, Yuugi, and I can't ask you to stay here when our position is so threatened." His grin faded. "In fact, there's only one place I can really think of. . ."

Yuugi knew what he was going to say immediately, knew where he was going. "The mundane realm," said the angel softly.

Yami knelt in the dust and clasped Yuugi's hands between his own. "But these are preliminary plans, Yuugi. There might still be a way to return you to the upperworld. . ."

Yuugi shook his head. "_Bu nen, Hae_." He used the angelic language hesitantly, almost unsure of his fluency. "It's not possible. They are sometimes cruel to the Fallen—and rightly so. Your world wants you dead; mine probably will too. I want to see the mundane world. If. . ." He faltered, stopped, left it unspoken. _If we can survive, if we can manage to escape._

"This is insane," said Yami quietly. "I've dragged you into it, but there's no stopping now." The corners of his mouth curled upward, and, irresistibly, Yuugi smiled too. "Since I came of age—since this murder game began, I've always wondered why they would want me dead. . .the obvious reasons were reasons of the masses—I'd always thought there was something a bit deeper than my mixed blood. . .and now I understand it." He paused, forehead creasing. "'Like father, like son,' Shaadi said. If that's what he meant—then, he meant for me to understand that, to realize what my mother was. _If_ she was royalty, that is."

Yami scowled, tapping his lower lip with a finger. "He wasn't mocking me, then. But why would Shaadi tell me that, knowing full well that it would make my claim a legitimate one?"

Yuugi leaned forward and, unexpectedly, kissed him. There had not been contact of that sort between them in some time, and Yami jolted at the touch. "I love you," said the angel, kissing him again.

"Y-Yuugi," said Yami, flushing a painful red. There would be travelers coming down the road soon, people who would, no doubt, be much better off having _not_ witnessed an angel and demon snogging in the tall grass, no matter how much he wanted it and Yuugi and—_argh. _"This isn't the place or the time for this—"

"I'm glad," said Yuugi. He added, with an impish smile, "And there will be a time and place later, I'm sure. When we reach Dahlia. Are we still going to Dahlia?"

"Yes," said Yami, looking down the path with new determination. They had been traveling for two days and would reach Dahlia by nightfall if they maintained their pace. "Shaadi is in Dahlia—I want answers."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

It was rare for Ryou to find himself alone and unoccupied now that all the other souls had escaped, but there he was, sitting in a particularly cold and secluded corner of the castle that morning. He'd managed to avoid Bakura, which had meant hiding from Mana and Sara as well. They were probably looking for him, but he doubted he would be much help. He, like the others, was exhausted. Terrible as the thought was, he was beginning to wish that Bakura would purchase some other souls to repopulate the castle.

It was either Wednesday or Thursday, but he had lost count of the days long ago. There were no calendars to be found in Bakura's castle, and even if there had been, he doubted that the days ran the same, given the time difference between the worlds.

Time had been strange in the demonic realm, he reflected. He wondered how many weeks—months, even—it had been back in Japan.

Unbidden, the memory returned to him—_before Japan. . .my family. . ._

They had lived comfortably, he was certain of it, and there had been a few holidays spent in France, but as always, his surest memories were of his mother—the earth-purple eyes that Amane had inherited and that he had always envied. _And it was Amane who'd had the magic in her blood. . ._

_Maybe I wasn't their son at all?_ He remembered his dream—hallucination?—yesterday in the study. _She wanted to tell my father something. She'd lied. About me?_

He couldn't imagine. But there was something wrong, at the bottom of all of this—his mother couldn't be dead, and demons did _not_ go about absorbing souls as Bakura had almost done to him. _Bakura may be a special case,_ he thought, and blushed almost immediately. _Still no excuse for almost wiping out my existence, and I don't care if he was bleeding to death._

After Amane's disappearance, his father had become more distant—even cautious—around him. _Cautious, my foot,_ thought Ryou, somewhat resentfully. _I was eight and the man acted like I was going to kill him. _

_Mum noticed. She talked to him. Things were better._

_And then she died._

That day had swept past in patches—_the sidewalk near the hospital, my father standing by her bed, the quiet house just before dark—_and moments that seemed to stretch on infinitely, where he was staring, eyes unfocused—staring at his knees, staring at his hands, staring at his mother's pale, empty face.

Ryou shook himself. _There are pieces missing. Don't dwell._

But he could see her body again in his mind's eye, lying in the bed, and he remembered how he'd reached for her and thought, for a split second, that it was not a human form at all in that bed, just a shape spun out of silver thread—an illusion meant to confuse them. Her hair, her closed eyes, the vacant face—yes, that was his mother, just dozing before him, but it was wrong. And a moment later the thought was gone; he sobbed and reached for his father, who, for once, did not move away.

They had stayed by her bedside until after dark, watching over her. His father had probably been memorizing the face of the woman he'd loved, but Ryou was searching for any sign of movement, a flicker of the eyelids, a gentle breath, _maybe she isn't dead_, any sign that the doctors had made a mistake.

It had been barely two weeks when Bakura Yaten had announced that, no, he couldn't stand the house anymore, and that there was an apartment waiting for them in Japan, in Domino City—he had just gotten it confirmed. There was nothing in the house for either of them anymore. Ryou had not protested. _I don't think I said anything, in fact. Maybe I nodded._

He had felt like an outsider only for a short time; the bullies had their regular victims, and it had been more a sign of acceptance than hostility when Jounouchi Katsuya had thrown him into a locker. _'Welcome to Domino City. Now I'm going to beat the living hell out of ya.'_ And he had never really been different from the other teenagers, even if he saw creatures in the mesh between the worlds and knew things that the others did not. No one had known. People had been kind to him, the library became his sanctuary—the sighting of otherworldly beings was rare. A ghost or faerie once a month, maybe. Something had had broken past the barriers and come screaming into the mundane realm, only to disappear just as quickly. Their power was weakened in Domino, a city surrounded by mountains.

Ryou, sitting in the darkened corner of a demon's castle with his head in his hands, flashed upon a truth. _The entrance to the marketplace was nearly a hundred miles away from Domino City. Why did my father take us to Japan? He had relatives—relatives we never saw. He was heartsick, tired of being haunted by memories of my mother and sister—ah, but there wasn't a day that went by back in England when I wouldn't see a sprite or some fey creature—_

_Then, he wasn't running from the memory of them._

Ryou felt a burning in the back of his throat. His eyes were prickling. _He was taking me away from England. To keep me from the ocean, where the holes in the mundane world were wide and deep. Inland. A city in a valley. Earth to hold back the magic. . ._

The sound of his own voice, rasping in the silence, startled him. "He knew," he whispered. "Then he _knew_."

_Knew what his wife was, what his children were. _As soon as Ryou thought this he understood how idiotic he'd been. _Of course he'd have known. Mum loved him. She'd've told him. _

_But why be so distant with me, if he'd already known she was nearly a full witch? Why look at me so warily when his daughter could make flowers blossom out of her hands?_ The question had been nagging at his brain ever since that night in the study, when Bakura's body, empty of magic, had recognized the hints of power in Ryou's blood and attempted to consume him—_why love his daughter, but not his son?_

"Ryou!" Mana's voice exploded into the corridor, magically enhanced to sound in every part of the castle. She would have had no idea where he'd gone, after all. "Come down to the kitchen!"

The change in his father had come after Amane's death, from warmth to sudden caginess. _He kept at a friendly distance, didn't poke his fingers through the bars like I was something waiting to pounce. But why? _

Ryou saw distinctly, then, his older sister screaming and banging her fists against him, just as he had done to Bakura weeks before in the study. . .

_Ah, _he thought, with pain tightening in his chest. _Was it because I killed her?_

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

There was a constant, muffled booming sounding in his ears, like many explosions going off at once, somewhere far away. Jounouchi was not paying any attention. He was staring wide-eyed at the city around him—Dahlia.

He could not believe the high-rises. Stone, steel, and glass, they filled his vision, climbing high enough to blot out the sun. _Dahlia is the city of a thousand citadels,_ Otogi had told him. But he hadn't expected it to be like this! The castles here were all tall and narrow, crammed together like the skyscrapers in Domino, with skinny concrete pathways snaking between buildings. The structure across from him was a soft, pinkish granite, like something out of China's Forbidden City turned chalky with pollution. The lower part of its walls were spattered with graffiti in every color imaginable. Its neighbors were huge, heavy masses of gray and brown—a Western castle on the left and something more Bauhaus on the right.

There were streets, too—wide black streets packed with cars and pedestrians. The cars were bizarre, hooded in metal sheets that looked like they had, in some cases, been nailed on the night before. There were taxis that were more like tanks than cars and immense trucks, some with open beds of glittering, blue-black coal. The drivers, caught in an evening traffic jam, all looked nervous; those on foot were hurrying back and fourth, almost jogging as they wove through the cars.

And what a crowd they were! There were giants, big brawny fellows and thin, scaled individuals, some demons that looked like they could be 'aliens' and others that appeared to be entirely human. Some wore mundane clothing, but there were some in leather in the throng; Jou saw at least a hundred cloaks floating amidst velvety Renaissance garments, samurai chain and mail. . .

"Come on," said Kaiba shortly, giving Jou's wrist a tug. The traveler's cloak was swirling around him as he strode forward. Otogi was miles ahead of them, waving over the sea of heads and horns.

Self-consciously, Jou pulled at the single horn jutting out from his forehead and smiled, reassured, when it did not peel away. His tail was heavier than he'd expected it to be, and it thudded a bit against the back of his legs with every step he took. Otogi had taken four green scarves and draped them artistically around his wrists and ankles. The eye patch had taken some getting used to, but for all purposes he was now blind in his right eye and doing a fabulous job of manipulating his body according to what his left eye saw. _Yarrr, I'm a seafarin' demon. Otogi should've found me a wooden leg to go with this._

Speaking of the vampire—Otogi was looking resplendent in the fiery red cape, which had managed to add some color to his dead cheeks. He grinned at them and waved again. "Hurry up; let's get there before dark!"

There was a pull on them; Jou felt it radiating from Kaiba. The demon had sensed something and was walking inevitably toward it. He had a vague, hungry look in his eyes—neither starved nor lustful, more like there was a void in his body that he needed to fill, and the means to fill it were nearly at hand. . .

For some reason—maybe because he had Kaiba's blood flowing in his veins now—Jou felt the same pull. _There is something nearby._

They came to a part of the city swarming with red lights, where the booming was louder and the crowd became thicker. The sun was disappearing over the tops of the citadels when they came to a massive black castle at the center of a four-street intersection. It had been built in the style of a Mughal mosque, with four slender minarets standing around a single glittering dome and small, slitted windows like upside-down crosses dotting the soaring dark walls.

"Ankh," said Kaiba.

As they moved to the door—a disappointingly normal backdoor—there was a deafening blast behind them. The ground shook and Jou looked wildly around for the source, almost stabbing Otogi with his horn.

"Ah," said Otogi, slapping the horn away from his face. He seemed anxious. "Hurry," he said, and Kaiba raised his fist and knocked twice.

"ANKH isn't open tonigh—oh!" There were two girls standing in the doorway. The girl who had opened the door froze like a deer in headlights and stared at them. She was blue-eyed and blonde, and dressed like a traditional house servant; the other girl was in a maid's outfit, petite with silver-blue hair. Behind them, Jou could see part of a kitchen and the cheery yellow and white tiles on the floor. There was a heavy silver ring in her hand, strung with at least fifteen different keys. Jou, drawing his attention back to her, noticed the bolts on the door, strapped across the steel at every conceivable angle—funny, he hadn't seen them there a moment ago. . .

She was too pale and translucent to be alive, but Kaiba bowed all the same. "Mistress," he said, bending slightly at the waist. "We've come to see Bakura."

She seemed to blanch and blush all at once. "The master isn't in at the moment," she replied, lowering her head respectfully. "You'll be the one who sent the fire-message this afternoon?"

_So that's what he was doing earlier,_ thought Jou.

The shorter girl curtsied, and Kaiba stiffened. "A grave faerie," the demon said softly, and the hunger in his eyes increased tenfold.

"Come in, please," the blonde said a moment later. "I don't know when he'll return, but he knows of his appointment with you. I'll ask you to remain on the ground level until the master comes back."

"Of course," said Kaiba, and the two girls stepped to the side to allow them in, which was when Jou saw the boy coming into the kitchen.

"What is it, M. . ." The boy's voice trailed away.

He had pulled his hair back into a knot and was much thinner and far more transparent than Jou had remembered, wearing an apron instead of a school uniform, but there was no mistaking the green of those eyes, nor the surprised 'O' his mouth had made when he spotted the visitors standing the doorway.

"Ryou!"

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

The mirror was a round, silver orb, taking up most of the western wall. Isis had entered the darkened room moments earlier and lit the sweet incense in the four corners. The mirror was an Ishtal heirloom, passed down from one moon-mage to the next. She, the first female demon to specialize in the moon magicks in three demonic centuries, had inherited the mirror from some distant relative. She'd had it brought here and placed in her brother's castle when she'd been forced to relocate. Marikku, who had taken to the sun magicks, carried two similar mirrors—two pocket-sized bronze discs that allowed him to contact anyone within the Ishtal clan or, indeed, anyone that he remotely cared for; he had only to give one of the mirrors away and a permanent connection was established.

Isis stood before the mirror, her hands clasped behind her back. She stared into the mirror, which did not reflect her own face or the flicker of the flames around her, glowing instead with a light of its own, and steeled herself.

"Marikku Azhal Ishtal," she said, and added, "Last of the line," because there had been several 'Marikku Azhal Ishtal's before and the last thing she needed was to be staring into a grave full of bones.

Almost instantaneously, she was thrown headfirst into the vision. She was lying flat on her back on warm cobblestones, feeling the sun beat into her as she stared up into the sky. The buildings were white plaster and wood, typical for Vladimir.

_Pegasus' castle is in Vladimir,_ she remembered, with some dread. But she would not jump to conclusions. . .

There was movement nearby and she wished that she could turn her head to see it, but she had become her brother's pocket-mirror—she knew that, somewhere back in Dahlia, her body had become rigid, frozen like a statue. She was utterly vulnerable in that state, which was why she had taken care to barricade herself inside the room, just in case there was a traitor lurking among her servants. . .

A sound. "Ah, there it is!" Her brother. Mentally, she was craning her neck, mind racing. _What was he doing, that the mirror was not on his person?_

There was someone else, lingering out of her sight. Her brother's hand came into view and then was jerked away by someone else's, equally brown. "No!" they were saying, in a rather muffled voice. "I won't talk to her! Marikku! She's got that cookie jar! That damned _cookie jar!_"

An outraged cry. Her brother muttering some kind of reassurance. Moments later, Marikku stooped over her, picked her up, and then she was looking directly into her brother's surprised eyes. She knew her own gaze was incensed.

"Sister," he said uneasily. "Is. . .something wrong?"

"Marikku _Azhar_ Ishtal," she ground out between clenched teeth. _I will not jump to conclusions. _"What in Shaitan's name are you _doing!_"

"Doing?" he said, the picture of wide-eyed innocence, though she could see the sweat collecting on his brow. He knew he was in for a lecture. "Whatever do you mean, what am I doing? I'm, uh. . .Shaitan, Isis, you look fit to murder someone!"

"Oh, yes," she said icily. "What are you doing that Shaadi would come to my door and ask that I report you to—the _proper authorities_? What are you doing that would give the Council reason to monitor your actions? What are you _doing_, you _imbecile_, that jumped you to the top twenty on our Shaitan-blessed wanted list!" Her lips had thinned and gone white, she knew. Her magic was sparking off the mirror in her fury, and he held the disc away from his face, wincing as she continued. "If this has something to do with _Bakura_, if you're going to get yourself hunted down and killed because of _Bakura_, then. . ."

"No, Sister," he interrupted, managing to sound calm even though he was looking absolutely flabbergasted. "I. . .well, I may have attacked a person or two, but I assure you, it's all in the name of a very noble cause—"

"Your noble causes be blessed!" she snapped, and this time a spark actually caught him on the jaw. He flinched away but did not drop her, to his credit. "The switching network was down for a day or two, alright, but it's been repaired! I don't know what in hell you're doing, little brother, but I want you back in Dahlia, in this castle and _in front of me_ in the next twenty minutes for an explanation! _Do_ we have an understanding?"

He nodded, shamefaced. "Yes, Sister."

"Good!" she bit off, and came back to her body, panting with anger in the dark. It took several minutes to calm down, and by then she was already darting around the room, extinguishing the tiny incense fires with small puffs of magic. She had to find something suitable—something dark and imposing—to wear. Marikku was coming home.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

"You mean, you have a bond with this demon?"

Ryou was standing over the sink, peeling carrots for the curry when Jou interrupted. "Look, can I help?" the other boy said, shifting his feet uncomfortably from where he sat at the booth. They had moved the booth into the kitchen some time ago, Ryou remembered, when it became clear that Ankh would not be able to keep up the morning shifts. . .

"But, Jounouchi-kun, I thought you couldn't cook," he said gently, now chopping the carrots up into fair-sized chunks.

"No, but I can peel the damn potatoes," said Jou, finding a paring knife. He started on the mound of potatoes piled on the counter, shaving them randomly, sometimes skimming over the skin, sometimes cutting too deep. "And, yeah," he added suddenly. "Yeah, I guess me 'n' him have some kind of bond now, thanks to Otogi. His brother's going to be King one day, he says."

"Oh," said Ryou absently, tossing the carrots into a pot of boiling water and emptying three packets of curry powder in after them. "That's nice."

_I killed her._ He envisioned himself slicing off his fingers one by one as he took a peeled potato from Jou and began hacking at it. _Murderer!_ The pieces went into the pot.

"And after the fight in Shadrach, we traveled another week and got here in the afternoon," Jou finished lamely. "I wasn't expecting to see you—not here. Jes—I mean, I was pretty damn surprised." He looked around, russet eyes flickering from corner to corner. "Doesn't seem too cozy. Colder than Kaiba, almost."

Ryou half-smiled. "I take it you and this demon Kaiba are beginning to get along?"

Jou shrugged. "Who knows? He's a real prick, sometimes. I mean, the guy kidnapped me. . .but, I saved his life, him 'n' Otogi saved mine, I guess we're all even when it comes down to it. He's kinda scary, but what do you expect from a demon?" He did not laugh. "How 'bout you? They treating you okay?"

_How strange,_ thought Ryou with a touch of irony, _that a bully and his former victim are standing quietly together and chatting._

"I'm alright," he said truthfully, taking the last of the potato cubes and throwing them into the curry, which had thickened considerably. He started on the onions. "They have been very kind to me." _Bakura in particular. . ._

"You're different, you know?" said Jou, squinting his eyes against the sting of the onions. "Quieter—even quieter than before, back. . ."

Ryou did smile this time. "Back home?" he said. His eyes were watering—whether from the onions or a sudden stir of emotion, he wasn't sure. "You're different, too," he said, thinking about the neon-green Bandaid that had spanned Jou's nose months ago and the arrogant grin that had stretched across his face.

This new Jou seemed tamer. Cowed.

As if he sensed Ryou's meaning, Jou shifted again, awkwardly jamming his hands into his pockets and lowering his head. He had removed the horn and there remained a ring of glue just below his hairline.

"How is Shizuka?" said Ryou. "Has she. . .gotten her sight back?"

"I wouldn't know," said Jou bitterly, shoving his hands further down. "He brought me into hell the morning-of. When he's done what he has to do, maybe I'll get to go back and see her, let her see me, after six fucking years. Can you believe it?" he said, giving an unhappy smile. "Six fucking years she hasn't been able to see me, and now I'm not there when the bandages come off. I hope the old man doesn't get drunk while I'm gone, that's all."

"I'm sorry."

Jou scowled. "Doesn't fucking matter. I like to think that I'm a willing participant on a grand fucking adventure." He nodded at the bubbling pot of curry. "You do the cooking here?"

Ryou added the last handful of onions. "Not until recently."

Jou gestured at Ryou's nearly see-through body. "Can you, uh, eat it?" He flushed, avoiding Ryou's eyes.

Ryou looked at Jou, who was tanned and healthy and so very solid. He set down the ladle, wiping his hands carefully on his apron before going over to the other boy. When he had, he reached up and pulled Jou to him, pressing his face into the other's shoulder. There was nothing there like the spider-web feel of Mana's arm brushing against his or the fire that was Bakura, just Jou—a simple and human warmth. _Another human!_ And there were tears in his eyes. "Jounouchi-kun," he said, swallowing back a sob.

Jou patted him slowly on the back before grabbing him with equal ferocity. "Who cooked before you?" he asked, not breaking from the embrace.

"There were other souls," said Ryou, voice muffled by Jou's shirt. "But they escaped some time ago. . .and—" and he inhaled the tang of the sweat of another human being! "—it's been rather lonely. I hadn't realized it until now."

"It has," admitted Jou gruffly. He pulled away, but only slightly, gripping Ryou by the arms. "Listen, Ryou. The reason I came back, even after you got me out—it didn't feel right, just leaving you to rot here. My deal with Kaiba was this—I get him in, I get to get you _out_. I didn't think I'd find you so soon, but. . ."

"Escape?" said Ryou dumbly.

"Yeah," said Jou, leaning forward and lowering his voice. "I don't know how we'd manage it, but Kaiba signed the damned contract so he'd better be keeping his word. Otogi says that if he breaks his agreement his magic will be forfeit, something'll eat it up. And I'm gonna help you, Ryou, just like you helped me." He was whispering urgently now, staring straight into Ryou's eyes with a fierce earnestness. "I don't know how long we're staying in Dahlia, but I'm gonna get you out, Ryou, get you your body back, back to the human world. . .I owe that much to you."

"Jounouchi-kun. . ."

"My, my," said Bakura from the doorway. "What do we have here? A human, is it?"

Ryou stifled a gasp and jerked away from Jounouchi. _How long has he been standing there? How much did he hear?_ "Oh no—the curry!" he exclaimed, running over to the pot and lifting it from the burner just in time to keep it from boiling over. He set it down on the counter, and began rummaging around for bowls.

"Ryou," said Bakura, with lively interest. "Who is this?"

Ryou filled six bowls with rice and ladled a generous amount of curry over each, not meeting Bakura's stare as he fought down hysteria. "This is—"

"Master Bakura!" It was Mana, blushing and out of breath. "Seto Kaiba is waiting for you upstairs. I sent him to your study a few minutes ago when I saw that you'd returned—I'm sorry; I thought you would be in there—he says it's very important, sir—very urgent. . ."

"Understandable," said Bakura, with a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. "Well, take care of things here, Mana. Meow. . .enjoy your dinner, human. We have a splendid chef."

"Your curry. . ." began Ryou miserably, but Bakura was gone.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

"Well, Master Kaiba, what have you got to say to me?" Bakura leaned against a bookshelf, chin raised, watching Kaiba out of the corner of his eye. "Speak your piece, and get out."

Kaiba began immediately. "You've known our family for decades, I'm sure."

Bakura grinned at him, eyes savage. "I won't deny that. But I'm getting a little tired of royals coming to me and whining for help. I've had enough of your bloody wars. They've left enough of me in pieces. Part of my left foot was just mailed in from Uster, as a matter of fact. . ."

He wriggled his toes. They were all intact and unscarred. Kaiba followed the movement with his eyes.

"You've lived through some interesting times," he acknowledged quietly. "And you are powerful. I've come to ask for your pledge. I want you to ally yourself to my brother and the Kaiba clan. We will have Shaitan's throne, but only with your support in the battles to come."

"From the shadows, I'll expect," said Bakura. "Few would back a renegade mage."

"I see we understand one another."

"No, not quite, I don't think," said Bakura easily, slipping from the wall and coming to Kaiba. He bared his teeth in a deadly smile. "You've come reasons other than forming an alliance—I don't know what, but very well. You've approached me directly instead of sneaking in like your wretched cousin, which I appreciate. According to tradition, I'm to give you a gift of sorts."

Kaiba was watching him. "Yes," he said. "You know what I want."

"Ah," said Bakura, staring at him. "We are the same," he murmured, somewhat bitterly. "You hurt for magic as I do."

There was silence. Kaiba watched him intently.

"Then I ally myself to your brother, but not the Kaiba clan," Bakura declared snappishly. His eyes darkened, went black. "My servants will had prepared your quarters. Curse the day you approached me! _Get out_."

Kaiba bowed low. "I thank you, Bakura."

As he exited to meet Mana, who was waiting in the corridor, he heard Bakura cry out in fury. From over the tall, blue-eyed demon's shoulder, Mana saw the her master drop fuming into a chair and bury his head in his arms. Then, with a colossal magical flare, the study door slammed shut.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

They were standing on the southernmost minaret, crouching on the stairs. Jounouchi could not see anything. He gave Otogi a prod and hissed, "'S nothing here. What did you want me to see?"

Otogi jabbed him back. "Shh! Look!" And he pointed.

_For the second time that week, Jounouchi awoke to find Otogi staring at him. "What?" he said groggily, rising from the bed. The room had been long empty, Ryou had informed him. At least half the escaped souls had slept and bathed in that room. And he was in Amano's bed, whoever Amano was. The bed was warm and comfortable and that was all he cared about, at the moment. "Do you have a thing for sleeping guys, or something?"_

_Otogi giggled at him. "Don't be silly," said the vampire. "But come with me; I have something to show you."_

_Jou yawned hugely, ready to stun the vampire with a vicious pillow attack so that he could slip back under the covers and start snoring again. "Don't you think it could wait until tomorrow?"_

_"Don't be silly," said Otogi again, and ripped the covers away. "It's important."_

_Groaning and shivering a little, Jou got to his feet. He glared at Otogi, seeing the cat-like eyes light up at him in the dark. It was disconcerting, to say the least. "Alright, alright. What is it?"_

It was Kaiba, standing at the edge of the minaret. Jou swore quietly and fell silent, watching. The demon was staring off into the distance, seemingly oblivious to the cold. There was some kind of glow all about him, dewy and golden. He was wearing neither the white trench coat nor the traveler's cloak, but his black undershirt and a long black shenti, decorated with gaudy silver beading, that looked as if it had been borrowed from Bakura's costume closet.

Kaiba moved and, like a cloud sliding away from the moon, he revealed the little girl that had greeted them at the door earlier. She was perched on the wall of the minaret, looking at Kaiba and. . .

"She's glowing," whispered Jou.

Otogi's smile had a glow of its own. "Yes," he said. "Watch."

Kaiba was walking towards her slowly, as though he were worried she would flee from him like a wild creature from an unexpected hunter. He reached out a hand, and Jounouchi stopped breathing. Something was about to happen—he wasn't sure what, but that hunger and yearning in his body had tripled. He was almost panting and Otogi dug his fingernails into Jou's arm to silence him.

"Sorry," Jou muttered, not tearing his eyes away from Kaiba and the girl.

Kaiba had come within a meter of her now, and she had not moved away. She watched him like a rabbit—apprehensive, but not sure if she ought to run or not. . .

When Kaiba spoke at last, his voice was soft. Soothing. "What is your name?" he asked, and the golden glow from her lit his face as she turned to meet his eyes. "I'd like to know."

She watched him now like a child, swinging her feet against the wall of the minaret. "Kisaraesh'efarim," she said, so quietly that Jou could barely hear her. Her voice was swallowed up by the sound of traffic below, the booming explosions and the thudding of Jou's own heart. _Something is happening, something is happening. . ._

Kaiba went to one knee, smiling. Jou did gasp this time and fell back, shocked by the joy that he saw in that smile.

"That's quite a long name," said Kaiba, that familiar twisted triumph making its way back into his face. Otogi hissed something, sounding surprised—maybe in Russian—and he grabbed Jou by the shoulders, jerking him back, shielding him. Jou struggled and settled, peering over the vampire's shoulder. "Kisara, then. May I call you Kisara?"

Her eyes were wide.

And the light from her swept over the minaret, enveloping Kaiba. Jou might have cried out; he wasn't sure, but the breath was sucked away from him, and Kaiba's shenti flared and fluttered as though there was wind billowing all around him. In that instant the light grew so brilliant that Otogi, swearing now in a low stream, ducked down behind Jou and dove for the shadowy stairwell, hand over his eyes; Jou himself yelled in fear and threw an arm up in front of his face.

As soon as it happened, the light faded to a pinpoint and disappeared. Kaiba rose to his feet with liquid grace and bowed solemnly to the girl, who was sitting on the wall of the minaret and staring out over the city like nothing had happened. She did not acknowledge the bow. . .she was fading. . .she was gone.

Kaiba was moving toward the staircase now, and Otogi grabbed Jou by the sleeve.

"Let's go," murmured the vampire, with a little bit of a whine in his voice. He sounded like he was in pain. _Well, fuck, that light must have been six times brighter than the sun—_

Jou was feeling strangely angry as they scrambled down the stairs and dashed for their rooms. Somewhere along the way Otogi vanished, wraith-like, in to the darkness, and Jou was left to his own thoughts. He was ashamed—he'd felt like a voyeur on that roof, knowing the moment was not for him but unable to tear his eyes away. He wasn't quite sure _why_ there was anger working its way through the guilt, and that in itself was excruciatingly frustrating.

He threw his pillow at the wall when he'd closed the door safely behind himself. They had found Ryou, and Kaiba was looking so damned _happy_ that their journey _had _to be coming to a close. . .

"Fuck!" he snarled, and slammed his fist into the stone.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Kaiba came to the foot of the stairs and stopped, taking an instinctive step back as Bakura moved out of the shadows to face him. He felt light as air and heady with power, and his entire being was swimming with magic, but that did not mean that he was prepared to face Bakura, not when the other was looking so angry. Now he could sense the other's magic, rolling off him in fecund waves, but—ah, interesting—it was not returning. It was flying beyond the boundaries of the castle and dissipating into the night. Would Bakura's body replenish it? Or had it always been like this—could his body even hold magic?

"So," said Bakura lightly, drawing Kaiba out of his musings. His eyes were dark and crackling with intensity. "You've done it. What was her real name, if I may ask?"

_He'll have a fight if he wants it,_ Kaiba thought. _I'm as powerful as he is, now._ He could feel his own new magic, still growing, radiating from him, buffeting Bakura's weakened shields. "Kisara," he said, allowing himself a smirk. "Her name was Kisara."

Bakura stalked forward, cat-like. "Kisara," he said, speaking the name with wrath shining in his black eyes. "I should have known."

"I will accept this as your gift to me," Kaiba said, barely louder than a whisper. Bakura's aura was fluctuating wildly; the magic swelling from him was becoming thicker, older. Kaiba tasted myrrh, heavy in the back of his throat. Even with his marvelously new power, Kaiba knew his limits. _It would not be wise to provoke him further—_

He was tossed backwards into the steps like a rag doll, striking his skull against a stone corner. He had been thrown by magic so solid it had felt like a fist—and Bakura was advancing on him. "No," the silver fiend said, biting each word savagely. "_This_ will be my gift to you. A quick death, nothing as painful as I had planned for you—"

He stopped then and his entire body was wracked with a shudder. Kaiba tried to rise but the room was spinning about him. "You're ill, Bakura," he said.

An invisible fist of magic closed around his neck, and his new shields screamed in protest.

"Strangling you would be merciful," said Bakura through a shivering cough. Something—blood—spattered across the floor and he doubled over, but the hand around Kaiba's throat kept squeezing—tighter, _tighter_. . .

_No!_ Kaiba would not—could not—die here. And with a strength he had not had twenty minutes ago, he seized Bakura's fleeing magic with his own and wrested the hand away from his neck, lifting himself in the same moment. "You're weak, Bakura!" he heard himself exclaiming through the buzz in his ears. "You've no choice but to let me live. And _she_ has chosen!" he hissed. "She has chosen me!"

His magic was roaring around him, a dragon. He could feel Kisara's small hand in his own, though she was not physically present. Bakura fell to his hands and knees, gagging, his strength escaping him now in leaps and bounds.

Kaiba felt dizzy with power.

"Master Bakura!" The servant girl, attracted by the sounds of the clash, came tearing out from the darkness of the corridor. She jumped at Kaiba, her hands forming a complicated rune. "You—you—_son of a bitch!_"

"Mana!" Bakura was on his feet again, swaying, leaning against the wall for support. There was something dark making its way from the corner of his mouth, dribbling down his chin. "Stop!" He lunged at her and caught her up in his arms, shaking her until her hands loosened and the runes collapsed one by one.

_If she had attacked me, I would have killed her._ The raw magic was undulating in the air, coiling around Kaiba's body like a snake.

"Stop, he'll kill you!" Bakura was shouting. There was an odd gurgle to his words, like his mouth was filling up with liquid. Then he choked and spat, and his servant threw her arms around him, supporting him while his body heaved. "Stop, blessit! He has Sara!" The last rune dissolved and he collapsed against the wall, breath rattling in his chest.

The girl froze. "What?" she said blankly.

"Let him be," said Bakura tiredly, with a pale imitation of his former coquettishness. He wiped at his mouth and grimaced. "He is our guest, and I, obviously, am in no position to throw him out."

The servant gave Kaiba an uneasy glare, but stepped back and allowed him to pass.

_This power is mine alone,_ thought Kaiba, and he left them with the magic bellowing in his ears.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

"Master Bakura!" said Mana as soon as the last of Kaiba's black shenti had disappeared down the corridor. She pressed her fingers to the corner of his mouth and silently performed a tiny black magic seal, one that would hold the bleeding back. "What happened?"

Bakura steadied himself against the wall, but did not attempt to straighten. "Sara's gone," he said blearily, wilting a bit more with every passing second.

Mana stared at her master, gone ash-gray in a matter of minutes. "Bakura—" she hesitated, then hurried on. "I've noticed that. . .this tends to happen to you after you perform very powerful spells. . .and—" _Don't hold back, say it, say it, he'll listen. _"And it's killing you! I can see it, you're sinking every day. I can sense the magic leaking from you. Something is wr—"

Bakura's anger lashed out around her, but she did not flinch back. "I know," said Bakura softly, with black fury snapping in his eyes. "I've known it—for a long time. It's worse now," he continued, voice growing even softer, even more deadly. "She's been gone from me a full thirty minutes—Mana-doll, believe me, I feel it. I _know_." And then, as his anger bubbled over and erupted, the castle _shook_, every stone in the floor to the very foundation, and Mana shouted a little and grabbed for a handhold. "But—never you fear—" He crouched against the wall, chest heaving. "Don't worry about a—thing, poppet—"

Blood ran down past his mouth as he tried to swallow.

"I'll—I'll get Ryou—" Mana stammered, panic swooping through her body. "He's helped you before, hasn't he?"

Bakura shook his head and spat blood onto the stones. "No good," he whispered, sounding, for the very first time, frightened, eyes wide and glazed. "Look, will you just—come here—sit by me. I'll be—alright. I promise."

Mana squatted by him, doing her best to ignore the blood, and pressed her hands to his sides, feeling for broken ribs or open wounds. There were none, but she cast a black magic seal _inside_ his body for good measure. It was something she had learned recently; she was not even sure that the spell would work, but the theory was the same. Bakura's coughing slowed and then ceased altogether, and he closed his eyes. Mana was glad; she had never seen Bakura afraid before, and the idea of it was—absolutely terrifying.

She fell asleep beside him with a dying Mahaado burned into her eyelids. The blood was everywhere and she wiped it from his mouth with shaking fingers, staring into eyes that soon went glassy.

_'As long as I breathe. . .'_

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

A/N: Oh, amazing! I got this chapter done so quickly! I hope you liked it. I enjoyed it. The next chapter will be even better. XD I think Bakura might be a little, teensy-weensy bit jealous. . .

Faust11: The search for the truth continues.

A shameless self-advertisement! I am going to post a one-shot about Ryou's really bad drinking habits soon, so everyone needs to read that. :nod:


	11. shuang dao

FAUST  
yuugiou fanfiction  
ryuujitsu & co.  
chapter eleven: shuang dao

Disclaimer: Saying Yuugiou belongs to us is like saying the sun rises in the west.

A/N: This chapter focuses almost entirely on Ryou. Well, Faust is eventually going to wind down. I'm imagining about seven more chapters before an epilogue. It should go quite nicely.

ITFTC:

"so when i saw him dancing around over there in front of the girls, i thought, that must be john's mating dance. . ."

--M.S.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Jounouchi Katsuya was, at the moment, experiencing a particularly low point in his life. Not quite as low as that time when he had—by some strange lull in the laws of physics, thank you very much—managed to run an old lady over and send her cane hurtling into the face of a rather beefy nightclub bouncer, but what was that grandma doing out so late anyway? And what—

A shiver of cold ran down his back, and he remembered the demon. Kaiba was standing beside him, staring out over the city of Dahlia with what was, quite frankly, the most terrifying expression Jou could have possibly imagined on his face.

Yes, he was smiling.

Not too wide—a little quirk of the lips, which were looking bluer than usual. Jou wondered if this was a good thing, since Kaiba was half-ice himself and apparently a master of the frozen stuff.

Jou had two options at this moment. Leaving quietly was not one. He could ask the question that was burning the roof of his mouth, or he could keep quiet. The first would probably leave him dead, but remaining silent would not excuse the fact that he was standing, sans permission, next to Mister-Icicle-up-His-Ass Kaiba—and it caught up to him that either way he would be dead within the next moment, so why die curious?

He cleared his throat and licked dry lips. Kaiba's eyes were on him now and the smile had faded. "So," Jou said, voice cracking a little. "What. . .what happened to that girl?"

With more venom than Jou thought was necessary, Kaiba said, "You'll have to ask the vampire. He would be delighted, I'm sure, to repeat himself until your mind managed to grasp the explanation."

Jou suddenly felt drained, too tired to fight. "Then you won't need me anymore?" he asked, tone subdued.

Kaiba smirked and Jou felt the cold washing over him in waves, and the minaret whistled for a moment as a frigid wind blew through it. Jou shuddered. "Do you want to stay, mutt?" said the demon, sounding amused.

Jou stared and could not answer. Kaiba's smirk grew.

"Yes," said Kaiba. "I no longer have need of you, and this fulfills your contract. I will return you to the mundane realm, today if need be. Bakura grows restless. We've overstayed our visit."

Jou felt his mind racing desperately, trying to find anything—something to delay the journey back, though he did not know why. He seized on something and blurted it out. "But—Ryou—" Kaiba raised an eyebrow, and Jou babbled on. "You _can't_ take me back," he said fiercely, drawing on some spare reserves of anger to keep going, "or your magic will be eaten. It's true; Otogi told me so. Because you haven't kept your end of the bargain. When you—when you fucking _kidnapped_ me, we were going to save Ryou, and we haven't done that. So I can't leave until—"

"True," said Kaiba. "Then I'll take you both back. It's no trouble." As if to prove his point, he snapped his fingers and the stones under Jou's feet immediately iced up. "It's cold. Why don't you go inside." An order, not a question.

Slipping and cursing, Jou slid to the stairs and ran, feeling as though the fury would burn a hole in his chest if he did not get away quickly enough. _Son of a bitch._

Halfway down the stairs, Otogi dropped in front of him from the ceiling, and he yelled in shock. "Otogi! What—what the _fuck_!" He pushed past the vampire, meaning to stalk off, but like lightning, Otogi was in front of him again. The vampire looked stern, and Jou swallowed.

"Look, are you stupid?" said Otogi angrily.

Jou blinked. "What?" he said. Whatever it was that he'd thought Otogi might say, he hadn't expected _that_. A shadow fell across the staircase and then disappeared as he looked up, puzzled.

"That's your demon friend again," snapped Otogi, "making sure I don't do anything to you. But listen to me; are you stupid? He just offered you your freedom, and you're making excuses to stay! Don't be insane!"

Jou shook his head. "You don't understand," he said. "I got Ryou into this mess, and I'm going to get him out of it."

Otogi scowled. "Oh, _sure_," he said scathingly. "That's the _entire_ reason why you want to stay a little longer. You know what, pup, I think you've got a little _crush_, that's what it is. Don't be an idiot. Get the hell out while you still can." He grabbed Jou by the elbows. "The underworld has a way of seducing people, making it so they never want to leave again. You're falling for the trick. _Don't_. Get away while you still can, and remember that there are some that you can't take away." For a moment, he looked almost wistful, and then the anger reasserted itself.

Jou forced the image of the solid blonde into his mind. _Cleavage, cleavage._ But he only saw Kaiba, stepping out of his bedroom wall. Otogi was crushing his arms.

"I ain't like that," he snarled. "If you're looking for anyone who's been _seduced_ by this place, it's Ryou, not me! It's Ryou who won't leave. But I'll make him see it. He has to go. He'll come with us. I'm not delaying anything, motherfucker!"

Otogi stepped back, and Jou rubbed at his elbows, breathing heavily. "Suit yourself," said the vampire quietly.

"Fuck you!" shouted Jou, swinging.

Otogi caught his fist and gave it a light squeeze—light squeeze for him, perhaps, but to Jou it felt as though the bones of his hand had just been turned to dust. He gasped and went still, staring at the vampire in pained surprise.

"Just when I thought you were learning to control that temper of yours," said Otogi evenly, releasing Jou's fist. "I didn't want to part like this. But you really should have listened."

Jou, seething and in pain, lunged again, but Otogi was gone.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Marikku woke in the room of his childhood to find Malik sleeping with his back to him, sprawled across the bed in an interesting jumble of arms and legs. The boy had stolen most of the sheets, and Marikku gave him what remained.

"Not the cookies. . ." said Malik, in a breathy little sigh. _Still dreaming._ Smiling, Marikku reached over to touch the golden hair.

"Going sentimental, little brother? How very unlike you."

Isis was standing in the doorway, watching him with fond exasperation. There was still some broken glass in her hair, but she was wearing yellows and whites again, he realized, so her anger must have cooled somewhat. She did not move, but her bracelets jangled as if an invisible wind were dancing through them. Quietly, he slid from the bed and rose to his feet, following her from the room.

In the next room, there were already three tall glasses of sharbat set on the mat, ready for breakfast. Sunlight was filtering through the reed blinds, and Marikku hazarded that it must be about noon.

They sat facing one another silently, and then Marikku began to speak. "This has nothing to do with Bakura," he said. "But, yes, Isis; in a fit of romantic passion, I stormed Pegasus' castle, killed a mage or two, rescued the boy, and brought him here."

Isis had been listening quietly while sipping her sharbat. "And if I turn you in now, dead or alive, I'll be rewarded twenty thousand severs."

Marikku did not smile. "I'm sorry, Isis."

Isis drained her sharbat, reached over, and clasped her brother's hands. "What's another war, when we're already caught up in one?" she said, with sudden cheer. "I'm starting to think Shaadi was blowing the entire thing out of proportion—"

"—as an excuse to see you?"

Isis frowned. "I should hope not," she said severely. "I'm glad you're home, Marikku, but now we must think of what we will do. Shaadi has been here to warn me several times, and I know that your castle will be the first to be searched, should there be a hunt. I know you can hold your own in a fight, as can I, but we can't keep them back forever. We'll have to think of sanctuaries, in case we are forced to flee. . ."

"It hasn't come to that yet," said Marikku. "The fighting in Dahlia is a distraction for those that would hunt me. But I can think of two places. One—there are always the mundane kingdoms. Two—"

"Not Bakura. . ."

Marikku shook his head. "No, not Bakura. He's ill, and what's more is that those who will pursue us will go after him, too. I don't want to bring anything like that down on his head. He's legend enough among the various factions, and I'm sure many of them have tried to recruit him already. There's no point burdening him further. No, I was thinking of another place. Someone with power and influence—someone willing to hide us, because they are in debt."

"In debt?" Isis' brow furrowed. "I don't follow, Marikku."

"A demon with deep ties to the Ishtal family," said Marikku, tapping his sharbat glass. "And, more importantly, one who loves you. I don't mean to exploit these connections, Isis, but why else have them? You know that Shaadi would shelter us—or, if not _us_, then you. His visits to you are relatively unknown among the Twelve; if anything, they only know he's been coming to convince you to turn me over. He's one of their one, too—we'd be hiding under their noses and they'd never suspect. The ties between the Ishtal dynasty and the mage Shaada—as they called him in the old days—run further back than most demonic memory. It would be an ideal place to take shelter. I might even get a niece or nephew out of it—"

Isis swatted at him. "I'll consider it," she said. "But I don't trust Shaadi. Nine times out of ten that he's been here, he has followed the Council's decrees exactly. He might try to turn you over once you've sought shelter with him, regardless of what he owes our family. If I were to accept his protection, where would you go, little brother?"

"To Bakura," said Marikku simply. "He would be able to hide me more easily than he would all three of us. In fact, now that I'm back in town, I might just pay him a visit, see how he's doing."

"Marikku," Isis admonished. "You know that's not—"

They heard a thump and a yell, and seconds later Malik came tearing out of the bedroom, trailing the sheets behind him. He stared wildly around the room before spotting Marikku on the floor, and dove. "Marikku—Azhar—Ishtal!"

"Oof!" grunted Marikku, falling backward and upsetting the third sharbat as he did. In a moment Malik had clambered on top of him.

"You—you _bastard_!" the boy shrieked, shaking him violently. "I woke up—and I didn't see you even though I was _sure _I'd gone to bed with you, and I thought, 'Allah—ouch—if it was all a dream then I'm going to fucking _kill_ Marikku,' and thank Allah—_ow_—it isn't!" He fell back on his heels, sniffling.

Marikku saw with a jolt that tears were beginning to form in his eyes. Tactfully, he took the cookie jar with his left hand and removed it from sight. "Malik. . ."

"Come back to bed," said Malik pitifully. "It's too early for all this."

Isis replaced the sharbat glass and filled it again, then sat back to watch the boy successfully throttle her brother. He was indeed the same Malik el-Sakr that she had asked for in the marketplace. His skin was still dark, but he did not seem quite as solid as before. The eyes, right now filling with tears, were more pale and bluer than she remembered.

She looked at the two, embracing on the floor, a golden pair in the light, and thought of one of Shaadi's earliest lessons, when they had been looking only at books and histories. _A magical duo, where the magic has become so intertwined that separate spells are impossible._ _In all of written demonic history, there have been only four of these golden pairs. _She knew it could not be so, because Malik was a full human, but how interesting to imagine it. . .

Marikku finally freed himself. Gagging a bit, he jerked his chin at Isis, and the boy squeaked a little before dropping to his hands and knees and bowing his yellow head in her direction.

"Lady Isis," he said into the mat. "I, uh, I'm really glad to see you again."

Isis hoped she wouldn't regret what she was about to say. "I think," she said carefully, "that I could live with having two little brothers."

Marikku's grin was like the sun.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Ryou jammed the spatula into the pan with surprising ferocity. Half-formed and soggy, the pancake sagged out of the pan and hit the floor with a squelch. "Ah!" said Ryou, spearing it with the spatula. "I give up! _Gomen_, Jounouchi-kun."

Jou looked up with the remnants of the only successful pancake hanging from his mouth. "F'get it," he said thickly, and swallowed. He wiped his mouth and gave the kitchen a furtive glance. "I meant what I said earlier, okay? We're leaving today, and I'm going to take you with me. I want to see you in school even if you make shitty pancakes, got it?"

Ryou gave him a wan smile. "Jounouchi-kun," he said gently, "what good would it do? My physical body is dead; we would have to find me a new form, somehow. There's no way things could return to normal." _I have to make him see that it's useless._ He felt desperate, as though he were beating his fists against a solid wall of exhaustion and Jounouchi's stubbornness.

"I'm not saying they have to," said Jou obstinately, shoving his plate aside. He wiped at his mouth again, almost self-consciously. "Look, we could find you a shaman or a black magician or whatever when we get back. You could be like a—like a. . .free magic construct, or something."

Ryou shook his head. "Jounouchi, I can't. I—"

"Otogi told me," said Jou quietly, "that the underworld seduces human souls into never wanting to leave. That's the magic of the place. It sneaks into your brain and keeps you from thinking of home. Come on, Ryou, can you honestly tell me that you've thought of escaping even once in this entire time? You've lost your mind to this place. I felt that way too until this afternoon—but I know now, we _gotta_ get out before it's too late and this place eats up all our defenses. Think about home, Ryou. You've never thought about it before, have you?"

_Not until the day you arrived,_ thought Ryou grimly. _And I'm a murderer._ "No," he said, leaning against the counter. "It was a shock," he admitted, "seeing you."

"So come back with us," said Jou, looking at him with some rekindled hope in his eyes.

"There's nothing to go back to, for me," said Ryou. "That's why I traded my soul for yours, Jounouchi-kun. You have your sister, and your parents, even if they're separated. You have friends. Just think, she'll be able to see you. . ."

"Ryou. . ."

"Jounouchi-kun, there's no way that I could—"

"Alright," said Jou, and relief flared in Ryou's heart, only to be crushed moments later as he continued, "alright. But it's in Kaiba's contract, and he'll lose all his magic if he doesn't fulfill it. Otogi says he'll die if that happens to him, and he's signed himself to it. You wouldn't let him die, even if he is a demon. _Especially _since he's a demon. You're a nice guy, Ryou, and I know you can't refuse. I'll _make_ you if I have to, Ryou. You'll thank me when we get back home and your head clears up."

The anger flared up deep in his stomach, and he clutched at the counter to steady himself. With remarkable calm, he said, "Jounouchi, I will not."

Jounouchi nodded, his face blank. "Alright," he said again. "We aren't leaving until tonight. You've got time to reconsider. Think about it, will you? Yeah, Ryou?" He rose from the table and brushed off his clothing. "That pancake kind of sucked," he said, giving Ryou a rather empty grin. "But thanks."

Ryou waited until Jounouchi had gone before seizing the plate. He wanted to hurl it into the sink, but even as he contemplated how he would clean the pieces from the counter, his fury began to cool. _Jounouchi has a good heart, after all. It's not as though he's doing this to spite me. And he has a point—why don't I want to leave?_

_There's nothing left for me if I return. But maybe Jou—ah, what am I thinking? Jou doesn't get it at all, and I can't go, no matter how much I want answers. _

There was a movement at the corner of his eye, and, certain that Jounouchi was back again with a new tactic, Ryou looked up with another irritated refusal on his tongue. It died in this throat; Bakura was standing in the doorway. The demon was leaning against the threshold in his usual manner, but Ryou could feel something dark crackling around the edges of his aura, and he understood, in a moment of terrifying clarity, that Bakura was _angry_.

Bakura's voice was soft and sweet. "What did he want?" he said, not moving from the door. His eyes were gleaming—dangerously, Ryou thought.

"They're leaving tonight," said Ryou, swallowing the lump in his throat. He looked away.

"Good riddance," murmured Bakura. He was before Ryou in an instant, grasping his chin with a cold hand. Ryou stared resolutely away from the burning gaze with his heart fluttering in his chest. "And are you going with them?"

The pressure on his jaw increased painfully. "No-o," Ryou breathed, as tears smarted in his eyes.

Bakura released him, his arm snapping back to his side. Ryou fell back against the counter with a gasp. "You're lying," said Bakura, even more quietly, and Ryou could feel the ankh around his neck throbbing with raw power. "Who is he? What is he to you? _Answer me._"

"Just a classmate," said Ryou, as coolly as he could manage.

"No," snarled Bakura, and Ryou suppressed a flinch. "He might be a classmate, but he is also Jounouchi _fucking_ Katsuya, and his name is on your contract. He's come back for you because you traded your Shaitan-blessed soul for him—" his voice was deadly now "—and tell me, Ryou, would you trade your soul for 'just a classmate?'"

There was really nothing to say to this that Bakura would understand. Ryou closed his eyes, trying to ride out his frustration.

"Are you going?" Bakura demanded, and then Ryou began to laugh—short, gasping, barks of laughter, because Bakura was being ridiculous now, and the entire situation was ridiculous—utterly—ridiculous, and _why_ did he feel so angry? This was Bakura's anger, storming around him. It was meant to be Bakura's anger only, and yet his blood was boiling. If he had been able to cast magic, he was sure the air around him would have been churning.

"What does it matter to you?" he snapped. "You don't _need_ me. You don't need _me_."

Bakura seized his shoulders. "I don't need you?" he hissed. "Look at me! _Look at what they've done_." His voice rose, panicked, fevered. "Look at me; I'm bleeding to death!"

Ryou could see no blood, but as he squinted, jolted into obedience by the desperation of Bakura's tone, he saw the magic evaporating from the demon in waves, the magic that separated from his aura and did not return. "Oh, God," he said unsteadily, fighting back the stab of pain that followed. Soon, Bakura's body would not be able to sustain the loss—_In magical terms, he really is 'bleeding to death'!_

Before he could blink, Bakura was leaning in, eyes half-lidded. Instinctively Ryou tried to jerk away, but the counter was unyielding against his legs—and Bakura had a hand on his back, pressing close. "And look," the demon was saying softly, against Ryou's mouth. "Look what I can do now. . ."

Like a fire in his belly, the anger regained control. Ryou shoved away, launching himself sideways. Satisfaction danced through his body as Bakura reeled back. "What are you doing?" Ryou said. "What the _hell_ are you doing?"

"Kissing you," said Bakura reasonably, but his eyes were dark.

"Don't you dare," said Ryou.

Bakura smiled at him, and there was nothing gentle or amused in the curve of his lips. "Or what; you'll scream?" he asked mockingly. In an instant he was on Ryou again, pinning him this time to the wall. "Then scream."

"Get off of me!" Ryou yelled, beating at Bakura with his fists. And then, seeing that Bakura had not done anything to silence him, he went on, gaining volume as he did. "I wasn't doing bloody anything! That's the second chance I've had to get away from you, and of course I said no, of _course_ I did, because I'm a bloody fool! You were lying there half-dead and you almost killed me, and here I am still." He breathed raggedly, feeling another pang of grim satisfaction as Bakura stepped away from him, looking astonished. "That's how a demon's mind works—survival and power, power and survival, bloody inseparable! Every time you touch me, I feel as though I'll go mad, but _of course_ you don't feel as I do. I should have known! But I thought—I thought—"

"Why, soul-boy," cut in Bakura smoothly. He had managed to wipe the surprise from his expression and now stood watching Ryou with a face as white and blank as bone. "Were you thinking that I actually cared for you?"

It felt rather like there was acid eating at his eyes and throat. Wiping his nose resolutely, Ryou turned to stomp from the kitchen. "Then there's nothing more to say, is there," he said stonily, determined to have the last word nonetheless. "I'll go tonight. I'll go with them."

The walls around him seemed to waver, and Bakura's sudden grip on his wrist was like a circle of flame. Then he was lying on Bakura's bed, groaning, feeling like he had been slammed ten thousand times into a stone pillar, reduced to a jelly of bone fragments and liquefied muscle, and Bakura was kissing him, soft and cold. There was blood running between their mouths, and in his current state, Ryou thought there might be a good chance that that blood was his. Bakura's elbow glided over his abdomen and he choked in agony, huddling in on himself.

It seemed like an hour after the demon pulled away before Ryou was able to uncurl, still gagging.

"You will do no such thing," whispered Bakura. His eyes were alight with anger, glowing an unearthly black; his robes rustled around him. "Do _not _forget that I own you. You are _mine_."

Ryou's mouth worked soundlessly. He could barely breathe.

"You are not to leave this castle. You are not to leave this room until Mana summons you. If you dare cross me again, I will have you branded." He crooked a finger and the ankh around Ryou's neck flared white-hot. Ryou flinched and bit down hard on a cry, and when he'd opened his eyes, Bakura had gone.

It was not until much later that Ryou was able to make his way to the door. He found it sealed shut—Bakura had melted the hinges.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

"Mana!"

Mana rushed down the stairs, doing her best to balance both spellbooks and bandages without tripping and tumbling the rest of the way. She hadn't had time to mark her page when Bakura summoned her. She had another roll of surgical tape held between her teeth, not that that was very sanitary, but the way Bakura was these days, it wasn't wise to dilly-dally unless she wanted a dead master and a lot of explaining to do. Granted, she had always been an expert with bullshitting the higher-ups; Mahaado had even praised her for it, but—

"Mana!"

She jumped as she rounded the last corner. "Coming, sir!" _At least it doesn't sound like he's dying, like last time._

She found Bakura sitting at one of the booths, wiping at his lower lip with a blood-soaked handkerchief. He was slumped against the wall, eyes half-closed, mouth slack. She stood there for a moment, examining him uncertainly. He _looked_ entirely whole and unharmed, despite the bloodied fabric.

"What are you, learning to juggle?" he snapped, turning shining black eyes on her.

She squeaked—actually squeaked. _Shaitan, he looks pissed. _"Sorry, I—it—I just—um, just a second, Master Bakura." She dropped the spellbooks and began unraveling a bandage. Without another sound, Bakura dropped his outermost robe onto the table and scrubbed the dirty kerchief across his mouth again. A browning smear followed the cloth. He let the handkerchief fall and returned her wide-eyed stare at her with defiance. Cautiously, Mana cast a black magic seal on his lips, which were a bit bruised. They looked as though they had been bitten, in fact.

She moved to his arm, but could neither see nor sense any damage. Bemused, she checked his side. There was not a speck of blood to be seen, and no intricate netting of ruptured capillaries that she had come to expect with Bakura's wounds. Carefully, she peered at his legs, his feet, his fingernails.

"I'm sorry, Master Bakura," said Mana, spreading his palm with both her hands and scrutinizing the unbroken skin. "But where exactly are you. . ."

"Everywhere," said Bakura flatly.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

"Son of a bitch," Ryou groused, a little too sore to be shocked with himself. He poked his stomach gingerly and grimaced. Mumbling, he fingered the melted hinge absently and hissed at the heat. He was sure that at least a half hour had passed, though the demonic sun was still shining viciously through the window, casting a fiery slice of light on the floor.

_What was that? Magic like I've never even read of before—ah, and painful at that._ He gave the door a push; obstinately, it refused to budge. _Well, that much doesn't matter. I have to get out of here._

The conviction burned more than the pain in his chest. He had to get away—that much was clear. Bakura had come close to striking him, maybe even killing him. The shock of it seemed to have cleared up some of the fog in his mind. _As long as I'm there to keep him alive, he doesn't care about me one bit._ "I'll teach him," said Ryou aloud, and jolted at the anger still hanging like some poisonous residue in his throat. _Oh, he'd notice. The real puzzle, of course, is how to get away._

The window was out of the question; he doubted he would be able to pass even a fisted hand through the narrow slit cut in the stone.

_Come on, _think

He scanned the room, scrutinizing the walls and furnishings and dissecting them in his mind. Bakura was probably not the type to have a trap door under his bed—or, for that matter, a trap door located anywhere else on the floor. None of the vases, jars, or books looked as though they were triggers to passages out. _And why would Bakura need an escape route, _thought Ryou grudgingly, _if he could flicker out of the room in a heartbeat?_ _Why would he want another path into his private rooms if he's under attack as Mana says? What's more, we're at the top of a bloody tower, and a narrow one at that. Magic or no, it's not as though there would be an extra staircase waiting around under this room._

Ryou returned his attention to the door. _This must be the only exit. Alright. So he's sealed the bloody thing shut, but there must be a way through it. Maybe if I blasted it—_

He cut himself short with a laugh. _Blast it? It was Amane who had magic in her blood, not you. _

For a moment he was five years old again, crouching on the floor with a skinned knee and tears in his eyes. His sister was squatting in front of him, holding out her hands. _Hey, hey, it's only a scrape._ She spread her fingers wide. _Don't cry, Ryou. Look. Look at this._ And he choked a little on a sob and gasped because there were white lilies blooming from her palms. Ryou remembered the pull, the pulse centered on her hands—he remembered how they had wilted seconds later, the flicker of a frown that had crossed Amane's face. He could see the vivid red of the poppies that she plucked next, seemingly from thin air, and set in his hand, and the quavering chirp of his own voice. _S-sugoi, Amane-'nee-chan!_

He had been ill for a long time—months, maybe. None of the usual symptoms. There had been inexplicable bruises and constant fatigue, a drumming sense of urgency that his child body had only been able to interpret as exhaustion. He was kneeling in the dining room with his blanket tied around his shoulders like a cape, huddling into the cloth. Amane was sitting in front of him, solving math problems, turning a watchful dark eye on him every so often.

_You okay?_

He nodded, but he had been feeling more tired that day than ever before, and he reached out and took her hand. She smiled at him, at the gesture, but suddenly recognition danced in her eyes and she tried to recoil, her face twisting with horror. _Ryou? What—what are you—_

Amane was still screaming in Ryou's mind as he refocused on the door. _If—if I did what I think I did,_ he realized, _then I should be able to. . .I should. . ._

_Dandelions_, he thought fiercely at his hands, and visualized the yellow weeds, the hollow stems and rounded masses of petals, trying to will them into existence. Ryou glared at his fingertips. _Dandelions_. _Come on, damn you._

After a few minutes, with no flowers in sight and a headache materializing instead, Ryou drove the heel of his hand into the door. _Ugh._ There was a strange hope trickling through his senses—maybe, if he hadn't been able to do that—maybe he hadn't killed Amane, maybe she really had—

With a bang, the door fell outward and exploded into fragments of wood, and Ryou tumbled headfirst into the cold corridor beyond. _What—did_ I_—_

"Oh, so you _are_ here, after all, are you?" said a voice, sounding delighted.

Ryou blinked up at the young man standing over him. He looked to be no older than Jounouchi, with a head of inky black hair and eyes like two chips of green glass. He was tossing two red dice, throwing them up and catching them with a bleached white hand. He was holding the door knob, still with a sizeable piece of wood attached, in the other. As Ryou followed the motion of his fingers, he caught a glimpse of two sharp fangs protruding over the man's paper-dry lips. It was the vampire that had accompanied Kaiba and Jounouchi to the castle—the one that had saved them from the angels.

"Otogi?" said Ryou, trying to get to his feet. He blinked again at the hand that was offered to him, then took it gratefully, shuddering at the chill that had settled on the vampire's skin. "Thank you."

Otogi tossed the handle away from him. "The one and only," he said, grinning lopsidedly at Ryou. He seemed vaguely familiar.

"What do you want?" said Ryou, wincing at how impolite it must have sounded. "I mean," he corrected hastily, "why did you. . .?"

"Ah, well," said Otogi, shrugging. "Jounouchi's leaving at any minute, and I kind of figured you'd be wanting to go with him. And I've trashed your demon's door, anyway, so you'd probably have to go, don't you think? Unless you want to be torn to smithereens and blown to rags. Oh. I mean. . ." He smiled apologetically. "A millennia, give or take, and you start forgetting how to talk. Well. I was from Byzantium anyway, way back."

Ryou nodded at him cautiously. "Um. . .thank you," he said once more, just in case he _had_ offended the vampire in some way. _He must have ripped the door open with one hand. . ._ "Yes. I did want to go—but how am I to get to the ground floor without being seen or sensed?"

"Stick with me, kid," said Otogi, sounding again like someone Ryou had known long ago, "and we'll have no problems."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

They were creeping along in the shadows on the fourth floor when realization hit Ryou like a grand piano falling from the sky. "Oh!" he said, halting where he stood. "Malik."

"Shh!" said Otogi, leveling a venomous glare at him. And then he said, "What? Malik? What about Malik?"

Ryou lowered his voice. "I thought you reminded me of someone," he said, smiling a little at the discovery and the soft, eager look that had come into Otogi's eyes. "Malik el. . .Sakr. You're Malik's vampire, aren't you? The one he talked about."

_"My sister's boyfriend turned out to be a bloodsucker. A real nice guy and everything, but his ultimate goal was to eat her—don't know why; I obviously am the tastier sibling—so he had to go. Wooden stakes are very handy against vamps, doncha know. It was kind of sad, since he was a looker, that one. Eshe-fatima and I fought over him for a long time before we found out."_

Otogi had him against the wall in a flash and was firing hushed, anxious questions at him in rapid succession. "Have you heard from him? Where is he? What's happened to him?"

"No, no," said Ryou quickly, waving his hands. "You've got me all wrong. We were in the same cart on the way to the auction. I haven't seen him since we were sold. I can't tell you how he's been. I'm sorry." He went on, more slowly now. "You sound just like him, you see, so I. . .oh. Oh, of course. He was sold to Pegasus—a wealthy demon, or at least that's the impression I got. He was able to outbid—"

"Vladimir!" said Otogi, between clenched teeth.

Ryou sifted through his relatively porous knowledge of demonic geography and cursed himself for not being more studious in his earlier years. "That's. . .um. . .not too far from here. Are you going to. . ."

"Come on, kiddo," said Otogi shortly, looking agitated. "Let's keep going. I'll explain when we're outside, alright?"

They made it to the third floor without event. Otogi knelt by one of the few tapestries in the castle and lifted the damp fabric, pressing his ear to the stone. For a long moment he was silent, and as Ryou opened his mouth to ask what the vampire was doing, Otogi said, "This will do. Bakura won't be happy to find that I've made so many holes in his castle, but, hey, what can you do? The usual exits aren't options. Stand back, will you, kid? Ryou?"

Ryou complied and watched, fascinated, as the vampire made a fist and drew his arm back. He gave the wall what could have been no more than two strategic taps—until the stone actually _rippled_, and began crumbling away. Like miniature fault lines, silvery cracks and crevices began curling up the wall. With a hollow, muted roar, more stone fell away, forming a hole twice the size of a human. Beyond it, Ryou could see the city.

"Hopefully this'll keep them from noticing it until it's too late," said Otogi, giving the tapestry a shake. "But 'snothing that a demon couldn't fix, I'm sure."

Ryou gave the gap an uneasy look. The city below still looked dangerously small. He'd never jumped from a second story before, but he was sure any experience of that sort would have left him with some kind of fracture.

Otogi nodded appreciatively. "Looks like sidewalk. Might be a little jarring, but you'll live. I won't, of course," he added, and giggled to himself.

Ryou gulped.

"Nope, no living for me. Don't yell," said Otogi, as he grabbed Ryou firmly by the arm and ducked out of the hole, and then they were falling.

Ryou didn't feel the impact, but when he'd finally managed to open his eyes, Otogi was already pulling him to his feet.

"That wasn't so bad, was it?" said Otogi. Ryou examined the small crater they had made in the sidewalk and felt dizzy. Before he could draw another shaky breath, though, Otogi had him by the shoulders and was steering him forward, away from the castle and toward the throng of demons on the street. "Now, they've probably started out by now. Jou is going to do that delaying thing of his; he's got faith in you, after all. They don't know I'm coming. Actually, that's because I'm _not_ coming."

"You aren't?" said Ryou, stumbling forward.

"No. Listen—yeah, I've known Malik for a while, if you're doing it in human years. I owe him big. Real big. You know what I mean?"

"Not at all," said Ryou, mystified.

Otogi frowned. "He put a stake through my heart," he said, breaking into a jog. "Painful experience. So you might wonder, what the hell am I doing still walking around? Why isn't this bloodsucker dust yet, you're probably thinking. Well, that's what I mean by owing him big. He brought me back, see. And to do it—"

Ryou had stirred his legs into movement and was struggling to maintain a controlled pace. "He sold his soul," he whispered, soft and disbelieving.

Otogi glanced at him. "You're a sharp kid," he said, not breaking speed. "And I know—" he swallowed "—I know there isn't anything between us, me and Malik, not anymore, but I got a debt to repay. I owe the kid. He's got some of my blood, too, so I _know_ where he is. I can sense him, so it gave me a real turn to hear you say he was in Vladimir—because he's _here_. I can feel him."

They broke into the demonic crowd, dodging the slower moving types and weaving around those that were standing. It must have been a common sight to see souls running through the streets, and no one made to stop them. _They must have assumed that Otogi is my master, _thought Ryou, doing his best to avoid being separated from the vampire.

"That means," continued Otogi, arms pumping, "that either Pegsy is here with his whole entourage, or Malik got away, somehow. I'm pretty handy with a knife if I have to be, but I don't want to take on a whole party of bodyguards—so I'm hoping he got away by himself."

"So why help me?" asked Ryou, ducking under the arm of a particularly corpulent demoness.

Otogi looked surprised. "Well, Jounouchi saved my ass once, so I guessed that I owed him too. He wants to get you out, no doubt about it. In my opinion there shouldn't be soul-slaves in the underworld at all. Lucky that whoever made up the damn system is long dead, or else I would have _flayed_ the skin from their bones and laid them out to bleach in the sun—ah, there they are."

Ryou followed Otogi's pointing finger to the tall brown-haired demon at the edge of the throng—and yes, there was Jounouchi, looking over his shoulder.

"But, what about you?" he said, trying not to sound out of breath and failing. "Are you sure you don't want to come along? With us?"

Otogi shook his head. "Malik's in this city, I told you," said the vampire with determination. "I'll find him. It's a weird enough coincidence that I met you, isn't it? I think we'll be seeing each other again pretty soon. Alright, this is where I leave you. Hurry up and catch them. Good luck."

A distant explosion rocked the ground under their feet. Ryou began to thank the vampire, but Otogi had gone, vanished as though he had never been there in the first place.

Ryou wasted no time. He began sprinting, waving his arm frantically. "Jounouchi! Jounouchi-kun!"

Both Kaiba and Jounouchi turned, and as Ryou crashed into them and into Jounouchi's waiting embrace, he felt the other boy ruffling his hair fondly. "So you came after all, did you?" said Jou, grinning from ear to ear. The demon turned a blank face on Ryou, but deep, heavy relief was spinning through his aura—an aura that was ice-white and a familiar opaque jasper, the color of a grave faerie's eyes.

"Sara?" breathed Ryou, wonderingly.

Jou brushed it aside. His grin seemed to be growing wider as he looped an arm around Ryou's shoulders. "You really decided to come home. Yeah, Ryou?"

Ryou laughed, feeling light-headed. "Yes," he said. "Now let's go."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

The forest at the edge of Dahlia was unexpectedly lush and green. The smell of the ocean was stronger here, far from the smoke and acrid burn of exhaust. Trees rose tall around them, boughs so heavy with leaves that it seemed to be nighttime under their branches. Despite the darkness, Kaiba led the way with long, confident steps, loping easily forward with one finger looped through Jounouchi's shirt collar. Jounouchi, in turn, had Ryou by the elbow as they stumbled through the damp blackness. Kaiba and Ryou were quiet, but Jou let loose the occasional curse as he staggered or tripped in the undergrowth, sometimes almost pulling Ryou down with him.

When Kaiba spoke, it was as though a blade of frost had slashed through the forest. "I've opened a portal between the worlds," he said, in a tone that brooked no argument. "We'll reach it soon. It should return you to the mutt's apartment complex."

"Will you keep looking?" said Jounouchi, in a rough voice.

Kaiba seemed to pause in his stride before answering. "Yes," he said finally, tightly. "Thanks to Bakura's generous gift, I'll be able to continue my search."

_Bakura's gift? _thought Ryou, but he said nothing, and Jounouchi lapsed into silence.

The next few moments were spent without a word spoken. They broke into a small clearing, where the trees were not so thick. There was something gleaming ahead, shining with an icy brilliance, and Ryou caught his breath. It was indeed a portal, but it looked every bit like an immense mirror, tall as a sapling but wider than the widest boulder, complete with a gilded silver frame. It hovered before them in the air, casting a sick blue glow on the trees around it. There were no reflections to be seen, and as the blue light fell on Ryou he felt a chill, as if the beginnings of a winter wind were blowing against his body.

"Your portal," said Kaiba, with a mocking bow. "I've timed it to shatter eight minutes." He drew from a pocket of his trench coat a single piece of parchment. _One of Mai's contracts, _Ryou realized. As he spoke, the parchment ignited and crumbled into nothing. "I've fulfilled my end of the bargain, mutt. You're free to go. Goodbye."

Ryou turned away from the glow of the demon's white coat as he disappeared into the gloom, but Jounouchi remained watching him until after that light had faded. Even then, he did not turn to the mirror.

"Jounouchi-kun," said Ryou gently, "we've only got a few minutes now."

Jounouchi's eyes were fixed on some point in the distance. He was squinting, staring hard into the pitch black. Suddenly light blossomed, a faraway speck, gold and glassy. There were shouts, and—_flames_. Fire that fell in flickering arcs.

"What in the—" began Ryou.

Jou swore. "Angels! They've found him!" he gasped. "He doesn't stand a chance against those fucking swords! They'll—they'll _melt_ him!"

A tinkling noise alerted Ryou to the mirror. Alarmed, he spun around in time to see a bright piece of glass—ice?—break off from the smooth blue surface and crackle to the ground, splintering into smaller shards before vanishing altogether. Cracks like spider's webs were forming on the mirror now, and glimmering particles were raining into the grass.

"Jounouchi-kun, the mirror!" he said urgently. "We've got to go—now!"

Jounouchi looked grim and resolute. "Go, Ryou," he said doggedly, giving Ryou a push toward the mirror. "Hurry!"

Ryou grabbed the other boy's hand. "No, you—"

"I've got to help him!" Jou snapped, eyes blazing as he seized Ryou and twisted his arm behind his back. "I told you, he's a fucking _ice _demon! What can he do against fucking _flaming _swords? Ryou, this is your only chance to get out!"

"It's your only chance, too!" said Ryou desperately, struggling against him. "Jounouchi-kun, don't do this!"

Jounouchi pressed him against the mirror. For one brief, frantic second, as he clawed against the other boy, Ryou thought he might be able to pull Jounouchi in with him. He was staring into his own startled eyes, face squashed against the mirror's cold surface, mouth wide with surprise.

"No! Jounouchi-kun!"

"I've _got_ to!" shouted Jou, giving Ryou a mighty shove. "Good luck. Take care of Shizuka. Now _go_, dammit!" He whirled about and lunged into the darkness.

"Jounouchi-k—"

As abruptly as it had come, Ryou's likeness in the mirror vanished. The smooth plane of the mirror rose up like a wave and engulfed him, and he plunged into ice water. In seconds the demonic forest wrinkled like a reflection in a pond disturbed by a pebble. Drowning, Ryou scrabbled in terror, trying to reach the surface—_any _surface. He choked and inhaled, expecting at any moment for the cold water to stab into his lungs—

The afternoon sun was warm on his face as he sat staring insensibly at the rise of glass and concrete buildings, not castles but skyscrapers. Stale city air hit him, coupled with the exhaust from cars that were not armor-plated. There were crowds walking the streets—not demons, but humans, leaving work, leaving school. Two schoolgirls in blue and pink uniforms strode purposefully by, swinging their briefcases as they chatted. The glinting gold pins on their blazers showed them to be prefects at Domino High School.

Ryou rose gingerly to his feet, looking about him in amazement. The high-rise in front of him must be where Jounouchi lived—and the Domino City clock tower was just visible in the distance. Five o'clock. His father would be home soon.

He raised a trembling hand in front of his eyes. Almost transparent, but that was to be expected. It was probably better this way—invisibility; it would give none of his former classmates or neighbors a chance to wonder why Bakura Ryou was walking around when he had supposedly committed suicide however many months earlier.

_Well, I don't know how I'm going to get Dad to notice me if I can't be seen, but it's a start, at least, to be home._

Ryou glanced at the street sign—3 Domino chome—and began walking.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

When Jounouchi burst into the thicket with his fists out and ready, he was almost expecting to see a triumphant Kaiba beating the shit out of the last three angels—maybe bitch-slapping them with icicles. He certainly had not thought that he would find Kaiba entirely surrounded by the porcelain-faced angels—a fucking _legion_, being menaced from all angles by the flaming scimitars. The demon had fallen and was glaring at his opponents. From the look of it Kaiba had already tried sheathing himself in ice; he seemed more than a little wet and possibly even singed. There were melting patches of snow in the grass and the air was definitely cooler. Steam was rising from the fiery blade menacing Kaiba's throat—there was the stench of burnt flesh—the blade that was whipping through the air, ready to take off the demon's head—

_Ah, what the hell,_ said Jou to himself. He picked out an angel without any of those gnashing, metallic wings and slammed his fist into the back of the guy's head, sending him crashing forward into the circle. The sword went flying from his hand and instantly extinguished.

Within heartbeats the angel was back on his feet, weaponless, and most of the others were looking at _Jou_ now, a ring of fucking perfect dolls' faces. But for the whirring of their wings, they were as still as statues. Jou got the feeling that they were all analyzing him, dissecting him and his purposes, and it made him angry as fuck.

"Hey, asshole!" he called to Kaiba. "Happy to see me? You don't look so hot—I mean, cold."

Kaiba was on his feet again. Fleeting shock crossed his blue eyes and was replaced by biting irritation. The demon's hands were coming together, twisting, forming shapes that sang with power. His trench coat billowed around him and the angels' robes fluttered. The air grew yet colder; frost appeared on the leaves around them. "Why are you here, mutt?"

"Helping you out, you son of a bitch," said Jou, and he dodged as the first blade swooped down at him. The angels must have been waiting to see whose side he was on—_as if my punching one of their guys wasn't a big enough hint. _"I didn't come back just to see you dance around."

Kaiba was fighting defensively, using his forearms to deflect the angelic attacks. He was frowning, his fingers moving yet faster, becoming almost grotesque in their speed. Had it not been for the fire of the scimitars swinging at him, Jounouchi felt he would have frozen solid.

_What the fuck is he doing, anyway? Trying to freeze the fire out of their swords?_

They were charging him in twos—there were enough of them to do that, after all. _Dumb idea, charging in without a knife or anything._ Jounouchi snatched up the extinguished scimitar lying abandoned on the grass, just in time to parry a slash that would probably have sliced open his chest. The blow and effort of blocking jarred his arms to the shoulder joint, and he stood stunned for a moment, feeling the vibrations in his hands and wrists. _This was a big fucking dumb idea. I don't know the first fucking thing about swords._

He set about hacking desperately, swinging wide at anything that came near. It seemed to be working—mostly because the angels had their focus on Kaiba.

The demon was a whirlwind of cold, spiraling through the angelic ranks like he really was dancing, his fingers flying. Jou felt frost building in his hair; his breath froze as it left him, but the angels' swords burned yet brighter. Water droplets were condensing on their hilts and dripping to the ground.

"Whatever the fuck you're trying to do," he bellowed at Kaiba, looking away from the angel attacking him, "it's not working!"

He paid for that moment of distraction, as what seemed like a fiery line caught part of his face and erupted down his sword-arm. He screamed and fell back, dropping the scimitar as a burn mark, bleeding and blistered, spread across his skin. Then Kaiba was in front of him, catching the angel's wrist in one hand. Jou felt something—he wasn't sure what, a pulse—and this time it was the angel who screamed, high and panicked, as his entire right arm went rigid and _shattered_.

"F—" He could barely breathe.

"Get up!" snapped Kaiba. The air around him was so cold that Jou was sure if he touched him he would have had instant frostbite. He clambered to his feet, snatching up the sword in his left hand now.

With the angel's scream, the fight had come to a grinding halt. The other angels looked at them uncertainly, but with new rage burning in their eyes.

"What's the matter?" Kaiba taunted. He had the wounded angel by the throat, cutting off his gasps with a steely grip. "Didn't think I could do this, did you?" Without another cry the angel in his grasp grew deathly pale and blue, and as Kaiba crushed inward with terrible pressure, his body undulated once and broke into pieces. There was a dark, violent gleam in Kaiba's eyes as he threw what was left of the angel—the largest frozen bit of his neck—away from him. "Now, _come_."

Wings snapping and scimitars outstretched, they came at him in one brutal, fiery wave.

"Kaiba!" Jou yelled, over the terrible grating of the metal wings. _Okay—what he just did—incredible. But that was one angel, not a million of 'em! He'll be _obliterated

"Never you fret, mutt!" Kaiba shouted, voice rising to a roar. He was laughing as the air shimmered around him—with the heat of the swords, Jou thought—and suddenly there was a shriek of some huge animal hunting, the noise of a tail lashing, the snap of cavernous jaws. The angels were scattered by some invisible force, caught up in that great, unseen mouth. Jou could see nothing until he squinted—really focused—on the air around Kaiba—

_A dragon._

Faintly blue, the form coiled around Kaiba's body, striking where his arms directed. Jou could see the gaping mouth and the rows of shining teeth, the wings and claws—

The angels were being torn apart. Where the dragon could not be, Kaiba was—reaching out, immobilizing whatever he touched and destroying it with a single press of his hands. The humming of the wings ceased as their gears iced over; swords fell to the ground as their owners were devoured or broken to bits. Kaiba's wild laughter had dissolved into a dragon's roar; his tongue lolled from his mouth like a feral beast's. Sleet and hail spattered Jou's body, cooling the pain of his burns but threatening to freeze the rest of him.

Then it was over, and a bizarre calm settled once more over the forest. The thin layer of ice over what was left of the angels and their swords slowly melted away.

"Holy—holy shit," said Jou weakly. "That—was amazing, Kaiba." When no snide remark came to his ears, he stared around the scene, wondering where Kaiba had gone. _Did he—oh. Oh, shit._

Disbelief fast giving way to horror, he realized that Kaiba was lying face-down in the grass.

"Kaiba? Hey, Kaiba!" He flipped the demon over and wiped the dirt from his head and throat, careful not to touch the blistered welt running along his jugular. Shaking him, Jou blinked at how _wet_ Kaiba was, soaked through with thawing ice and sweat. "Kaiba!"

Kaiba's hand came up and, rather disdainfully, pushed Jounouchi's away. "Relax, mutt," he said scornfully, blue eyes gone glacial. "There's nothing wrong with me."

"The hell there isn't!" said Jou angrily, grabbing him again and tugging at him violently. "What the hell was that, anyway? You—you had a dragon! It _ate _them! Where did it come from? Where'd you send it?" He brushed again at the demon's forehead and did a double-take at the heat he felt there. "You've got—" his voice cracked in astonishment "—you're warm!"

Kaiba gave an aggravated sigh. "After some physical exertion, mutt, elevated heart rate and temperature are natural things."

"Not in you!" Jou growled. "Come on, you're fucking _on the ground_ and you're telling me there's nothing wrong with you?" He realized he was squeezing Kaiba's hand and dropped it like it was the fanged end of a snake, or the burning end of a scimitar, for that matter. His face and arm were starting to throb again, reminding him. "You saved my life."

Kaiba closed his eyes, seemingly weary past any clever retorts. "Returning the favor," he said dimly, and lost consciousness.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Ryou sat outside his old apartment, staring with frustration at the locked door. It was getting to be late at night, but so far there had been no sign of his father. _Idiot,_ he berated himself. _It's been months since you left—what makes you think he still lives here?_

He had been sitting there for hours. The inhabitants of the apartment next to theirs had come in long ago, walking by him without any sign of having seen him or felt his presence. They were new tenants, a married couple that he did not recognize. One of them had almost stepped on him and he had had to scramble out of the way; he hadn't waited to find out if the foot would bounce back or go through.

The clock tower was halfway through chiming eleven when there was a sound of footsteps.

The man that emerged from stairwell was considerably more bent and haggard than Ryou had remembered. He was dressed like a traditional businessman, with the beginnings of a gut bulging against his shirt. His hair was stiff and wiry, trimmed close to his head, but despite its peppered appearance, he had a relatively young face. He walked with a tired shuffle, a wizened leather briefcase slipping from one hand as the other hand fumbled for his keys.

"Dad. . ." Ryou whispered.

The apartment door unlocked with a click, but he did not enter. Instead, he nudged his briefcase against the corridor wall and gave a deep sigh. His eyes were a weary, wavering green as they settled on Ryou, sitting cross-legged on the carpet.

His voice, when it came, was quiet and hesitant. "I was wondering if I would see you again, Ryou. Why don't you come in?"

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

_A/N:_ Rather a long chapter, but there was a good deal that I wanted to fit into this one. So, let's recap! Ryou and Bakura had a fight (sort of) and now Ryou's gone back to the mundane world, to sort things out with his dad! Pretty weird how Yaten's not freaking out about Ryou being there, ne? Jounouchi decided to stay, but Kaiba's hurt and Otogi is running around trying to find Malik. As quickly as everyone converged in Dahlia, they've all gone their separate ways again.

Notes:

The title of this chapter, "shuang dao," means something like "twin blades," to put it in a rather flowery manner.

_3 Domino chome_ is my attempt at inventing a Japanese street. I read that their addresses are not exactly like ours, so a chome (cho-meh) is something like a district of a city, while banchi is a city block. I'm not too clear on the specifics, but Wikipedia has a nifty article on the subject.

About the angels in this chapter—  
I see the fighting elite as kind of robotic. Incredibly beautiful, but glassy and empty, designed for battle. All Kaiba had to do was freeze up their 'circuits.'

_A/N:_ As always, thank you for your continued support of this story! The next chapter should be up by June 24th the latest.

Faust12: Ryou's father has some explanations for him, but he can't stay long. Conditions are just about rotting in the underworld, and—Bakura's sick! Is he dying?


	12. mana's castle

FAUST  
yuugiou fanfiction  
ryuujitsu & co.  
chapter twelve: mana's castle

Disclaimer: Saying Yuugiou belongs to us is like saying the moon is made of port wine cheddar. _Everyone_ knows it's made of Swiss.

A/N: Um. Yes. It's been a while. I was very happy to be able to type (f)(a)(u)(s)(t) again, though it took some work. To those of you who stuck with this story through these long months…I can't thank you enough.

ITFTC:

"EPIC! TENNIS! FRENCH! REPUBLICAN! DEATH! MATCH!"

--lokogato, about the formation of the French National Assembly

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Marikku gave Malik's hand a squeeze as he made his way to the door. He lingered a moment in the threshold, frowning. Outside the sun had already faded, and what remaining light cast an eerie red glow over everything it touched. "You'll be alright?" he said, nodding at them.

Isis returned the nod grimly. "Of course, my brother." She was wearing white robes—ceremonial, passed down from centuries before and stiff to the knees with blackened blood—Ishtal battle garb. Those who came now to the castle, the ones versed in the old tongue and old customs, would know not to cross her, or any of her household. And those who were ignorant—well, the steely look in Isis' eyes probably said it all anyway.

Malik's smile looked a bit watery, and his forehead was wrinkled with worry, but he too seemed resolute and ready for any threat. They had seen, much to their shock, the first of several demonic militias marching through the streets that morning. Even now that night had fallen, distant clanking could be heard over the booming of the azor mines.

"Be careful," said Malik, staring uneasily past Marikku's shoulder.

Marikku pulled the hood of his cloak over his head and seemed to disappear entirely into the gloom. "'Bye, then."

Isis closed the door after him and stood staring fiercely at the frame, muttering as she ran her hands over the smooth wood. "There," she said, stepping back to admire her handiwork. Malik squinted in time to make out the last glimmer of gold hieroglyphs disappearing into the door. "I'd like to see anyone try to break that down. And you," she added, rounding on Malik, who took an instinctive step back, "don't think of touching that door. From now on it will only respond to the caster—me."

From the wary look on Malik's face, Isis knew that he had not taken her warning lightly. There was anger in his blue eyes as he took another step away from her. "Are you locking me in, Lady Isis? What is this?"

"Nothing of the sort," said Isis. "But Marikku tells me you like to wander, and there are places in this city—" She cut off abruptly and closed her eyes.

Malik blinked. "What?" he said. "What is it?"

Isis ignored him. She focused and leapt for a moment out of her mind, into the wards. Yes, something had disturbed them—a small blip from the eastern corner of the castle as one of the place-markers (a vase on her mother's side, she knew) for her defenses flickered and vanished. She felt the loss as a pinprick in her left temple, and tightened her vision around the abnormality. It had been moving earlier but stood frozen now, as though it could sense her gaze upon it, though how that could be, Isis didn't know. _The Big Five?_ she wondered. _Have they sent someone? A _capable _magician?_ She found herself wishing, only briefly, for the older days of Ishtal glory, when there had been a whole slew of heirs and extended family in the castle; the wars had cut them down—wars and foolish pride, and Marikku, whose sun magicks would have been most effective against a Big Five sorcerer, had left.

They had been there for some time, she realized. More disturbingly, she _had not noticed_. They had slipped safely past the entrance-guards and likely would have continued on just as safely, had they not brushed against the wards. Isis was glad of the intricate netting she had woven, now. They had seemed a waste of magic before—then again, she had never thought that anyone would have been able to penetrate this far into the Ishtal castle undetected. Wars and foolish pride, she reminded herself grimly.

It would not do to send strength surging into the defenses now; that kind of magic would be sensed. She set herself to observing._  
_

The aura was weirdly faint, she noticed—faint but familiar. As she examined it more closely she found twisting whites and a flicker of blue every now and then. She climbed deeper and found the sweet, dark memory of ancient times, the old brown tones that belonged often to humans—

She turned to Malik in disbelief. "But it's _you_," she said, and watched the watery browns that glowed behind his shoulders. "It's _you_."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

The streets were dark and far from deserted. Jou stared hard at buildings, cobblestones, demons—anything that might help him to figure out just where the hell they were. Kaiba was lighter than he looked, but half-carrying him, half-dragging him through the underbrush had been no joke. Now they were standing near pavement, but the demons at the fringe of the large pedestrian mass were already giving them strange looks; Jou glared right back and felt his heart hammering erratically, sliding up his throat to choke him. _Maybe we should have stayed in the fucking forest._

Kaiba was almost conscious now; he stirred against Jou's shoulder. "What," he murmured, sounding a good deal like he'd been swilling gravel but no less icy, "are you hoping. . .to accomplish, mutt?"

"Shut up," Jou hissed, uneasily. He felt sluggish, inexplicably, and a little too warm for his liking. The air was sticky against his skin; Kaiba's sweat dampened his neck. He hadn't thought Kaiba capable of sweating, and this scared him more than he cared to admit. He picked up the pace, pulling Kaiba along the receding cobblestones between dirt and city. "Just shut up, okay? We'll find someone. To fix you."

Kaiba gave a quiet little rasp of laughter. "Fix me," he repeated, and then he was silent. His grip on the front of Jou's shirt seemed to melt away. Jou grabbed him before he could slide off and squawked a bit when he realized it was Kaiba's thigh that he was gripping. _I'm dead._ He shut his eyes and hoped that Kaiba would make it quick and painless.

Nothing happened. Kaiba slumped heavily against him.

"Kaiba?" said Jou, glancing at him. Kaiba's head hung awkwardly over his shoulder, jolting with every step. "Shit. You still there, man? Don't pass out on me again. Dammit. Fuck."

The streets were still pretty packed, but Kaiba was probably not going to hang around long enough for Jou to circle the city on foot. There was probably a hospital somewhere. There had to be. Jou cut inward and crossed an intersection, narrowly avoiding a large flatbed truck, which swerved and sped past him with a loud curse thrown out the window. Several dark blurs moved past him, sprinting after the truck, and he pressed Kaiba closer and began a slow jog. He had almost made it to the next streetlight when all hell broke loose.

The first thing he noticed was his shadow—it was growing longer and longer, and the heat on his back was incredible—_hot _white light swallowed it, swallowed his body. Six years of video game arcades and obsessive reading of military manuals had finally come in handy; he yelled and threw himself flat, felt Kaiba sliding away from him. The concussive roar knocked him into the air and forward fifteen or twenty meters, where he was halted abruptly by several trashcans. As he landed he realized he was still yelling against the noise, trying to drown it out. Lids clattered around him; blood spattered; dimly, he was aware that he was in a mess of garbage, and that there were demons and assorted pieces of demons lying around him, and_ Kaiba Kaiba where is Kaiba_—

He breathed in and could _taste _the tang of burning rubber and flesh in the air. "Fuck!" he shouted; there was blood in his mouth. He spat and yelled again: "F-fuck! Oh, shit, oh, oh my _God_—ngh—Kaiba!_ Kaiba!_" And then he wasn't really sure what he was yelling anymore; he was struggling to get to his feet and groping around, squinting against afterimages. "Kaiba! KAIBA!" His mind had gone blank with panic; all that remained was the name.

Another blast rocked the ground beneath him, and he fell forward, covering his face. Bits of metal were raining down, he realized, sharp as knives. "Kaiba!" he screamed into his hands, and then into the road as he scuffled against it, trying to pick himself up. Pain burst in his left arm, his side. He crawled doggedly forward, away from the heat.

The next explosion lit up the scene, and he saw Kaiba lying a good distance away, crumpled like a broken puppet. "Kaiba," he wheezed, a harsh exhalation of breath that made his ribs wail, "Kaiba. Oh, Jesus—_ah._" He gritted his teeth against it and used his right elbow to pull himself forward.

He reached Kaiba as another boom shook the street. The demon's eyes were closed, his brow pinched. But he was breathing; Jou saw the quick rise and fall of his chest, the garbage that spilled out around him. Blood ran from his right temple; his hair was matted with it, and he looked so goddamn _irritated_. Jou choked on a laugh and immediately groaned, curling around his side.

There was a truck burning, he realized gradually—the one that had almost run him down. "Shit," he muttered, watching it. The twisted metal frame and shreds of tire were all that was left. Thick blue-black smoke funneled into the sky; a firestorm was building, fast consuming the other cars. Another explosion, a good deal smaller, sent another cluster of flames spiraling into the air. Fragments of bluish coal littered the ground between twenty or thirty dark lumps—the bodies.

Jou coughed and felt blood in the back of his mouth. "Shit," he said again. The street shook with the drumming of feet. The flames were crawling steadily closer to them, feeding on the coal and growing higher with each piece they consumed. Jou figured this was a fitting end, dying in hell surrounded by flames, but all the same he thought it was pretty stupid, pretty _goddamned_ stupid—

"Fuck this," said Jou, deciding that it really was stupid. He moved behind Kaiba and sat back on his heels, hooking his hands under the demon's arms. "Don't think you want to die like this. Shit, you're a bastard. Wake up and carry me! Motherfucker." His ribs were probably broken again, and his arm, too. He'd snapped it in two places falling from a tree once. They were probably going to make it, though. They were going to make it. . .

Feet thundered past, too close to Jou for his own comfort. He turned to yell an obscenity and stopped dead, his jaw dropping. _The explosion musta happened seconds ago_, he thought numbly. Demons were yelling around him, screaming for each other, for water, for help, for Shaitan. They milled about in a blind panic, wailing and shouting—trampling the dead and the dying and _coming right at them._

"Stampede," Jou breathed, staring at the rising tide of running bodies. Like hell they were going to escape this one. He grabbed Kaiba by the shoulders and started to shake him, shouting all the while. "Oh _fuck_, Kaiba, get up, get up, wake up, _do something!"_

He pushed Kaiba onto his back and crawled doggedly on top; maybe they could avoid the worst this way—tuck your head under, goodbye kidneys—

"Shizuka," he said into Kaiba's shoulder, tasting the sweat and the dirt and the blood, clutching at Kaiba's elbows, "Shizuka, _gomen_—Shizuka. Shizuka." He oriented his thoughts on her and braced for the impact, tried not to think about anything else or where the first foot might land, and maybe they could make it through this—

Something caught him by the scruff of the neck—a booted foot, maybe—and tossed him up, lifted him into the air like he weighed nothing. Gagging against his shirt, which was choking him, Jou opened bulging eyes and found himself gaping at his own dangling feet and the bleeding demon sprawled beneath them.

The high shrill of sirens cut through the deadened reverberations in Jou's ears as Otogi smiled fondly down at him. The vampire had Kaiba in the crook of his left arm. He was using little flicks of his fingers to push his way through the throng.

"Otogi," said Jou weakly. "How. . .?"

"I thought I told you to get out while you still had the chance?" said the vampire sweetly, giving him a shake. "You're both idiots."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

"This is incredible," Yami muttered. He was staring at ANKH's tightly barricaded door in open-mouthed astonishment. No booming beat sounded from beyond the walls. The sidewalk where they stood was horrifyingly vibration-free and deserted; there were no waiting crowds or approaching groups of would-be clubbers. "ANKH is never closed—not even on bad nights. Dahlia. . .the city must really be falling apart."

Yuugi slipped his hand into Yami's. "What do we do?" he said.

"There are lights," said Yami, eyeing the fluorescent glow escaping the shuttered windows. "Someone is probably inside. We have to get off the streets, but. . ." He trailed off and cast a worried glance over his shoulder. The intersection was dark behind him; sirens screamed in the distance. "It could be a trap, don't you think? Bakura may have already left the city. Whoever it is inside now might not be friendly. Though," he added as an afterthought, "Bakura wasn't exactly agreeable the last time we met, either."

"_Hae,_" said Yuugi, his wide eyes fixed on the street, "someone is coming." Yami cursed and, folding them both into his cloak, backed into the shadows.

It was another demon in a similar traveler's cloak. The dark folds were draped over his forehead and drawn high around his nose, effectively hiding most of his face from view. He had stopped for a moment, seemingly just as puzzled as Yami was about ANKH's closed door. Recovering, he began moving even more quickly, navigating around the streetlights with long, easy strides. He kept the cloak clasped tightly over his mouth as he walked. He was a bit too tall to be Bakura, Yami thought, but the added height might be part of a magic-based disguise.

He reached the door in another step and pressed his hand flat against the metal. Yami leaned forward, listening intently. "Bakura!" the demon hissed, into the back of his hand. "Hey, Bakura!"

"Why is he doing that?" Yuugi whispered. "They won't be able to hear him unless he shouts. . ."

"He's addressing the wards, I think," Yami whispered back, though he wasn't too sure himself. "If Bakura made the wards, he'd be able to feel the disturbance. He'd answer the door, if that were the case." _Shoddy wards,_ he thought—_we managed to get by them easily enough before._

The hooded demon thumped the heel of his hand against the door and spoke a bit louder. "Oi, Bakura. _Bekhara_."

The door opened—the tiniest of slivers. The demon released his grip on his cloak in surprise, and it fell away from his face, revealing dark skin and a mess of blonde hair. The girl who'd answered the door—Yami remembered her—seemed to know him; she nodded once and drew it open a little more, just enough to allow the blonde demon to slide in. She shut the door after him with a hollow, decisive boom. It didn't seem likely that she would open it again tonight.

"Come on," Yami said to Yuugi, still whispering. _She looked grim. Something isn't quite right here._ "We can't see Bakura right now, it seems."

Yuugi looked rather cheerful for someone who was going to have to wander back into a bomb-ridden city. "Should we find a hotel, then?" he said. Yami smiled, somewhat bitterly: the angel's stomach was rumbling but he was resolutely ignoring it; he hadn't mentioned food since he'd Fallen. Yami wasn't going to push him. He hadn't felt particularly hungry since the Fall himself, not since he'd had to—

"Yes, I think we should," said Yami, stopping that thought short and throwing an arm around those thin shoulders. There were only assassins, thugs, and explosions to look out for, after all, and he wanted to bathe and go to sleep in a nice bed with Yuugi curled around him. They would come back once Bakura had sorted this out, when things were as close to normal as they could get.

"Let's go, angel-mine."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Mana was silent as she shut the door behind them. For a long time they stood quietly in the cold parlor, looking at one another. The demoness' eyes were grave. The hands she slipped quickly into the pockets of her apron were burnt red from casting—black magic seals, it looked like. Blue-lipped in the chill, she finally murmured, "You've come to see Bakura."

"Yes," Marikku said, a bit uncertainly. The last time he'd visited, she'd greeted him with a broad, pink-cheeked smile; _Welcome back_, she'd said. "I'm sure he's been expecting me."

She nodded brusquely. "He has been. This way, please."

She led him through the kitchen. The torches lining the walls had been neglected; one or two sputtered weakly in the darkest areas. In the purple gloom Marikku could just make out the chipped and dirtied yellow tiles, the dishes that had been piled in the sink and abandoned. A large pot sat forgotten on the stove, the remnants of its contents caked thickly to its sides. The countertop was filthy; Marikku brushed a wondering hand across its surface. His fingertips came away covered in a heavy film of grime.

Mana moved fast, though unsteadily. Her shoulders were stooped—unconsciously, Marikku thought; as they made their way up the second flight of stairs she seemed to catch herself and straightened.

The stairwell was dark, too, and, not wanting to break his neck, Marikku muttered a sun spell under his breath. Mana greeted his summoning and the subsequent glow of light with a wan, grateful smile. "There's so much to do these days," she said, withdrawing her damaged hands from their pockets and looking at them ruefully. "I don't have enough magic to care for this entire castle. It's all I can do to keep his study warm; I'm sorry you had to see it in such a state—"

"It's only you?" Marikku interrupted with a start. "What about—what about the others?" He remembered—only days earlier, it seemed—the mind-numbing beat of drums, the dancers, and the dozens of immaculately-dressed souls there to serve and clean, Bakura reaching over with a laughing smile to jolt the alcohol out of his system. He recalled, just as sharply, the same damp quality that had haunted Malik's Egyptian catacombs. There was none of that desert heat here, and he tightened his cloak around his body with a shiver.

They had been climbing for some time—Marikku's head was beginning to swim—before Mana replied. "They've run away," she said hesitantly, then clarified. "We had. . .a security breach."

"Shaitan," Marikku said, running his hand over the dust-choked banister. It ended beneath his fingers, and he stopped in surprise. They had come to the top of the tower.

The study door was no longer gleaming. All traces of gloss had faded and even the iron rivets were beginning to wear, though to the maker's credit he could see no rust. Mana formed a fist and rapped smartly on the wood. "Master Bakura?" she called, loudly. "It's Master Ishtal come to visit."

The voice that answered was muffled. "Tell him to come in, Mana-doll."

Mana met his eyes soberly. "He's not himself lately," she warned him. "I'll come back later. I'm expecting his landlady sometime tonight, too."

They exchanged a nod and she moved out of sight. A moment later he heard her footsteps tapping briskly down the staircase and a heavy sigh, a long exhalation that echoed upward. Marikku opened the door and stepped in.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

"But it's _you,_" said Isis. Malik, eyeing her nervously, was smelling bemusedly at his shirt and on the verge of apologizing.

"Er, not really," said a voice from the doorway, with a polite sort of half-lisp. Isis whirled, her heart pounding, fingers shifting into a basic defensive rune. _Disguised his aura—he's fast—careless of me—_

She had expected Malik to follow her movement, and she had expected him to dart behind her. She had certainly not expected him to leap up with fire in his eyes, jab forward an accusing finger over her shoulder, and exclaim, "You! _Bin sharmuta,_ I thought I told you not to find me again!"

It was a vampire, Isis was sure of it. Skin bluing around the jaw, green eyes just a little blank, mouth graying and dry, but otherwise entirely human in appearance. The aura radiated centuries. Shaitan! that something other than demon could live so long, and yet look so young.

"You're here alone?" said the intruder, in disbelief. He took two swift steps forward. "Malik—it's really—what about Pegasus?" He was smiling now, a sharp grin with somewhat stained canines. "It's really you, kid!"

To this Malik gave an unmistakable and decidedly watery sniffle. "Motherfucking bloodsucker!" he shouted. And then, vehemently: "Moron!"

Isis blinked.

The vampire blinked, too. "Malik," he said, "I've been traipsing all around Demon Land looking for you and sleeping on rocks and eating unhealthy things; let's not go through this."

Isis stared between them. _I will not leap to conclusions. I will not—oh, hell. _"Am I to understand, Malik, that you have been two-timing my brother?" She rounded on Malik, who blanched and stumbled back—into the vampire, who ignored Isis and quickly snatched him to his body.

"Idiot!" yelled Malik, wriggling furiously against the arms that held him. "What are you doing? What will she think? Let me go!"

"Well?" said Isis dangerously, fingers clenching and unclenching. There were bonding rituals she could invoke, if necessary. More painful ways to test fidelity; if Malik thought he was already in hot water, then he was sorely mistaken. She'd always known that human boy was no good. Promiscuous! Involving himself with a vampire of all things!

Malik looked ill. "No," he said. He seemed to be choking. "No! No! It's not what you think. At all. Well, it might be. Or it was. Lady Isis, I can explain—"

"You'd better," she snapped, folding her arms.

"Oh," said the vampire, awkwardly. He was controlling the struggling Malik very well with a single hand, using the other to stroke the boy's hair. "Um. Well. You see—Lady Isis, is it?—you see, there's been a bit of an accident—two friends of mine were injured in a blast, and I've put them on your front step. . ."

A loud crash sounded just beyond the door. The vampire brightened. "That'll be them!" he said. "I'll just—"

Isis slipped into the wards she'd placed on the door and looked past them; too dark to see well, but there was a human boy slumped against the steps, his fist against the wood, the other hanging limply at his side. There was someone huddled beside him. . .her eyes widened, and she wrenched herself away from the scene so swiftly that she felt a headache coming on. _I know that signature. Kaiba Gozaburo! _

"Can they come in?" asked the vampire, smiling at her. He patted the squirming Malik on the shoulder. "You've certainly grown," he said to Malik, who sputtered and began trying to throw punches.

_Gozaburo is dead,_ Isis reminded herself, as her fingers twitched and the migraine rushed forward ruthlessly. _He's dead._

She turned her back to them both and disabled the magic binding the door. _The Kaiba heir—this I must see for myself. _

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

"About fucking time," Jou groused, as the door slid open. He hadn't known what Otogi was playing at, dragging them around like that, all fluttery and _We're almost there, getting warmer_ and squealing. He'd set them on the steps and disappeared into a back alley. The burns on Jou's face and arm were beginning to throb and itch again; adrenaline from the bomb had lessened the pain, but only momentarily. He supposed that he was coming out of shock.

There was a woman standing there, looking down at him. Not him—at Kaiba. Her face looked pretty empty, but spending so much time around Kaiba's poker faces had taught Jou a thing or two about blank looks; this woman was worried. He could see that tiny dip between her brows.

A moment later, Jou also realized that this was probably the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen in his life. She was not exactly his type, but her eyes were an incredible blue—he could tell that even in the darkness.

He looked past the sheet of black hair falling over her shoulders and saw Otogi, holding some kid in an expert headlock. Otogi waved; the kid gasped for breath.

"Well, come in," said the woman. Her tone was bitingly cold; Jou decided he rather liked it.

He shouldered Kaiba, groaning a bit, and crawled past her, collapsing in the foyer a moment later. He lay panting on the reed mats, trying to ignore the sharp pain that each gasp brought. The woman shut the door again and muttered to it; Jou felt a weird hum in his ears as she spoke, and the knot in his chest seemed to grow tighter. Her dress was _caked _to the knees with something rather like mud—it smelled metallic, and Jou understood suddenly that it was blood. He meant to warn Otogi, but all that came out was, "Otogi, it's," and he had to close his mouth and breathe through his nose.

"Now," said the woman. Her nostrils were flared, her lips whitened. "Explain everything."

Otogi cleared his throat delicately. "Lady Isis—their wounds?"

"Broken bones and overexertion!" she snarled, her hair rising and crackling around her. The windows rattled. Otogi recoiled; the boy he was holding looked terrified. "Nothing that needs immediate magical attention! _Now, I want you to explain. _Who are you to Malik? How have you come to know a Kaiba?"

_Gozaburo is dead. _Jou heard it as an indistinct whisper; he'd been hearing whispers since the blast and he was really hoping there was nothing wrong with his head. If things got any more fucked up, he was going to ask Otogi to put him out of his misery.

_Gozaburo is dead._ The name made him shiver, for some reason.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

The heat of the study engulfed Marikku in a wave as he entered. Bakura was bent over his desk with his back to the door, quill held loosely in one hand. The other hand was poised over his skull, plucking and pulling at the silver strands that grew there. The skin of his arms had become almost translucent, his fingers even more spidery. He was wearing a dark green _shenti_ that ended just at the ankles; soft and silken, its red fringe pooled over the knotted, purpling veins of the bridges of his feet.

He was wearing a strange sort of cape, Marikku thought—the kind that Isis might wear, a wide white cloth that he had wrapped around his shoulders once or twice. Beyond a pile of books, three of Medusa's tails flickered and hissed. The giant cat was sleeping, it seemed; every so often she would give a great sigh of breath, loud as a panting dog.

Marikku closed the door and leaned against it, reveling in the warmth. "I hear Lady Anzu is stopping by," he said, grinning. "You just can't get a break, can you, Bakura?"

He jolted as Bakura turned to face him and sucked a frightened breath through his teeth. The silver fiend's eyes were glittering a strange, feverish red. They were lined immaculately with kohl, though the lips were bitten raw and the sunken cheeks tinged with yellow.

"_Bekhara_!" Marikku said, slipping into the old tongue in his shock. He looked away from the gleaming eyes. "You look—"

"How do I look, Ishtal?" said Bakura with a twisted smile. He rose to his feet in a single liquid movement and clapped his hands together with a disturbing grace. The fringes on his clothing gave a soft rustle as he stepped forward.

"You look like shit!" Marikku blurted. "What's happened to you? Shaitan, Bekhara,you look _ill_."

Above his shaking mouth the rest of Bakura's face was almost angelic in its serenity. Staring at him, Marikku could see again the day of that last battle—_Stay by me, Azhar_, Bakura had said. Marikku had done exactly that, had stayed by him during the slaughter, and it was the only reason he was standing where he was today. He remembered, convulsively, the dark anger burning in Bakura's eyes and the new red shine that had replaced it, the smooth new skin on Bakura's palms where the hard, scarred calluses had existed only hours before—_What have you done, Bakura?_ he had asked. _What's happened to you?_ And Bakura had never answered.

"Set your cloak down at least, Ishtal," said Bakura, in that same lilting tone he had used so long ago, an exaggeration of his usual playfulness. "You must be hot." Numbly, Marikku undid the clasp and threw the cloak aside. The heat had grown stifling; sweat was beginning to prickle against his scalp.

"Bekhara. . ." That was a girl's woolen shawl Bakura was wearing, he realized. Mana's, probably.

"We haven't much to offer you here, I'm afraid, but at least it's warm," said Bakura with a tinkling laugh. He dropped back into his chair and set an elbow on his desk, let his chin droop against his palm. "I thought we weren't going to use those old names anymore." He picked and pinched at his lips and tore away another strip of skin with a wince.

"You surprised me," said Marikku, watching him warily. "Bakura. Tell me what you did to—how you made your eyes so."

Bakura sighed, dabbing his lower lip with the shawl. "Nothing in particular, I assure you," he said airily, gesturing at his eyes. "A little kohl, a little water, smear and you're done. Mana keeps excellent magazines in the foyer for that kind of thing. I don't know where she gets them. Don't be so dreadfully guarded; we're all friends here—isn't that right, Meddy?"

At her master's summons the giant cat yawned and rolled to her feet, padding silently over. "We're having An Cafeteria here next week," Bakura continued blithely. "Meddy likes them, don't you, darling? Like those songs about pudding and rabbits?" He caught her behind the ears and scratched until she purred. Her _seven _tails lashed and twined about her hind-paws.

"She's lost another tail," Marikku said, disbelief overwhelming worry for a moment. "Look at her, Bakura—she'll be the size of a common housecat soon. _What happened?"_

Bakura smiled wide, stroking a snake-tail with the back of a finger. "We had a run-in with the Big Five," he said. "It didn't end well. They found me, you see. They couldn't believe that I wasn't quite dead. Oh, the berserker from eighty years past, they said. They were rather excited. Easily excited fellows, the Big Five." His hand went to his twitching mouth again. "How is that human you went to steal?" he said suddenly. "Malik, was it?"

"I have him," Marikku said, forcing his horror down. He would have to play along if he wanted any answers at all. Shaitan, Bakura couldn't have gone _insane. _Not like this. "He's alright. We're alright." _You aren't, _he thought, and left it unsaid

Bakura was quiet a moment. "My souls have gone," he said. "They fled when the Big Five came. They left me for dead."

Marikku sifted through that half-drunken conversation, pushed past the memory of a throbbing headache. _Blushes seven shades of crimson if you know how to. . ._ah_. . .you know. _"The one you liked so much—he went along with them?" he said. He gave a wavering grin. "I don't think you ever told me his name."

"Ryou," said Bakura flatly, the playful tone melting away from his voice. His hands stilled and fell from his lips. "That was his name."

Marikku tensed.

Bakura's face had lost its coquettish expression. He wiped again and again at his bloodied mouth, dark horror shining in his eyes. "Marikku," he rasped, "I'm going mad. I'm going mad and I can't stop it. Can Medusa save me from madness?"

"_Bakura_," Marikku said, in anguish. He sagged against the door. "Oh, Shaitan. Tell me—tell me what you did. That day before the battle. Please. We can fix it—Isis and I can fix it—just tell me what you did."

"'Thrice dev'lish'—Shaitan, I can't; the contract—" The words rattled and died in his throat, and he tried again, the cords in his neck bulging. "Ryou. This isn't lovesickness, Marikku; he does something, fixes me—I need him. I _need _him. My magic is bleeding away but he stops it—ah, Sara. Give me my Sara. She's mine; I bought her—_give her to me_—" He brought his hands to his face and gasped into them.

When he straightened a moment later, he was biting hard at his knuckles. His bloody eyes were wide and bright with dread. "I made a deal," he said, his voice low and hoarse. "With something older than us—older and much darker, and powerful, Marikku. Power like you wouldn't believe. I sought them out; I called them down. I told them, 'Give it to me. That's what I want—I want to crush them.' The angels—" He broke off with a chuckle. "We must have crossed the border between Arachne and Dertres a thousand times—retreating, advancing, retreating again, eh, Marikku? The underworld was slipping—we had lost the advantage; we were weakening. They meant to humiliate us. But I didn't care about that—I wanted blood. I found what made our world—even before the war, I'd been searching, you remember—I found them, and I asked them to give it to me: magic enough to destroy armies. Shaitan, that magic. . ."

He'd been staring into space as he spoke, his face alight with the memory of something—death, Marikku thought numbly. "That magic ate holes through me. And now I'm going mad, Marikku," said Bakura grimly. "There's no stopping this—only Ryou, and he's long gone from me."

He lapsed into silence. His mind was wandering; deep in that brilliant red Marikku could see the old, coal-black fury, and he remembered the wild, screaming laughter the day of that battle, so long ago. Bakura was dangerous. He had been dangerous then; he had also been sane. What was left of the Bakura—Bekhara—that Marikku remembered was splintering apart before his eyes—into some warped caricature of himself, a lilting, sweet-voiced creature that terrified Marikku like no other. There was time to gather the pieces, though—if only Bakura would tell him more about this Ryou!

"You're not going mad," said Marikku, as calmly as he could manage. If there ever was a time to run screaming for reinforcements, it was now. "Blessit, Bakura, if you think I'll stand by and let this _thing _eat away your sanity—tell me where that soul's gone. Ryou. Tell me where he's gone."

Bakura shook with soft laughter. He squinted with those red, red eyes at Marikku's expression, came forward and took Marikku's hand between his own. His smile was cajoling now, his fingers cold in the heat. He spoke sibilantly in the old tongue: "Don't look so horrorstruck, Ishtal; that face doesn't suit you at all."

Marikku stood petrified at the door. He wondered frozenly why Mana did not come.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

"Beliaf and Mammon," Marikku breathed, slumping against the banister. He closed his eyes and pressed his hands against his eyelids. "Shaitan. _Shaitan._" It was difficult to keep from shouting aloud. He wanted to _destroy _something. He could feel his magic straining against his body.

"Not you, too?" said Mana dryly. He heard a soft flump as she sat down beside him, arranging her skirts.

They'd met often enough before to be informal. _Fuck _etiquette, thought Marikku. Bakura was—oh, Shaitan. "I wouldn't make light of it," he snapped at her, and turned to glare. In the faint light he could just make out the crooked grimace she was giving him—another smile, he realized. She looked down at her lap.

"You know it too, don't you?" she asked dully. "He's losing his mind. I don't know if it's—if it's because of the loss of so much magic in such a short time, or something entirely different. Some days he's been entirely lucid. He'll tell me, 'Mana-doll, do this for me,' or 'let's get such-and-such a group to perform next week.' And he wants me to buy new help for the castle." She broke into a real smile at the memory. "'Mana-my-sweet, you can't do this by yourself. Get yourself some new souls, burly ones. Give them feather dusters. You'll get old and dumpy if you keep this up,' he said."

"And the other days?" Marikku prompted.

Mana's smile turned bitter. "They aren't pretty," she said wryly. "That's for certain. But it hasn't been anything I can't—I mean, I can snap him out of it, most of the time." She looked at him, twisting her hands. "You know, don't you? Bakura is a berserker. The one who destroyed the angelic army, eighty years ago."

"Yes," said Marikku heavily.

"He's being hunted," she continued, playing with the starched hem of her apron. "The Big Five are after him. Marikku," and she grasped his wrist with cold fingers. "Marikku! You were with him—tell me what he did—tell me how he did it!"

Marikku stared at her. She had a bright, greedy gleam in her eyes. "Tell me," she whispered.

"I don't know," he said, and jerked away from her grip, repulsed.

Mana blinked, and the eagerness evaporated from her face. She slipped the rejected hand back into a pocket and gave an awkward laugh. "Sorry. Maybe I'm going mad too. I just—"

He cut her off. "Never mind it," he said. "Tell me about this Ryou. When. . .?"

She was silent a moment. "It was an auction a month ago, I think," she said, giving him a puzzled look. "Yes, Keith and Mai's. Bakura had gone there with you, at your invitation. You didn't notice. . .? Mm," she said knowingly, at his rapidly souring expression. "Purchase gone wrong, I see."

_"You _are_ an annoying little whelp, boy." Pegasus smiled and held out a massive feather that glittered like a black diamond. "Ten thousand severs, and this delightful roc's feather. See how the sun shines on it?"_

_Marikku's stare was dark with fury. Teeth clenched, he turned abruptly and stalked away from the platform, his cloak billowing out behind him._

_"_Marikku!_" He heard Malik's desperate scream and paused in his incensed stride. He didn't turn back._

"Yes." He would have given a hundred thousand severs to forget that morning, the way Malik had screamed. "Bakura did mention later. . .that he'd bought someone. And that was Ryou?"

She nodded. "Uncanny resemblance to Master Bakura, face a bit rounder, green eyes. Quiet, though—nothing like Bakura in personality. Bakura thought the similarities were interesting. He. . .er."

"Enjoyed him?" said Marikku, grinning a bit despite himself. "On kitchen countertops, and the like?"

Mana blushed to the ears and clicked the heels of her shoes against the stone. "And study floors, against closed doors, in storage closets, yes. Bakura had a habit of pouncing on all of us—on the souls, I mean—but he was starting to border on monogamy with this one, definitely a frightening thing. Certainly, the other souls resented it."

"But they let him escape with them?" Marikku said. "That doesn't make sense. These are corrupt beings—"

"No—he's only just gone. The rest went when the Big Five came." Mana shuddered. "Bakura—he loosed some kind of shockwave against them. Ancient magic. Shaitan, it was. . .I was in the room, then. I was sure we'd all become dust—but they had Sara, somehow, and used her to counter the blast. You know that Bakura purchased her to support his magic?"

"Yes," said Marikku. "It was my sister who suggested it to him."

"Sara fainted, and after that. . .Bakura fell. Crumpled where he stood. He was bleeding—there was so much blood. I thought he was dying; I really thought. . ." She shuddered again, violently. "His magic was failing and the wards around the castle had fallen; the souls escaped. I don't know exactly what happened to me. When I came round again, Ryou was lying there beside him; Sara had pulled them apart—the entire study was in flames—

"But Bakura wasn't bleeding anymore," she said, a note of triumph creeping into her tone; it was the joy that came when one's theories were proven. "I knew then that Ryou had done something—somehow, he'd managed to save him." She continued unbidden. "I think Bakura realized it too, gradually, and that made him afraid—that something so powerless—a soul slave!—held so much power over his life. But he couldn't stay away.

"And, after all, there didn't seem to be an issue. Ryou was entirely in Bakura's control. He thought he'd solved the last problem. As long as Ryou stayed beside him, he had no reason to worry—but. . ." She withdrew her hands again and stared hard at the burnt palms. "Some time ago, the demon Kaiba came to ask Bakura's support—_but he took Sara from him_. You know the old alliance dances. That was the gift Kaiba asked, and Sara had accepted him as her new master—"

"Bless him," Marikku muttered.

"—and grave faeries are hard to come by; they know normally to stay away from soul bargains. In Kaiba's entourage there was a human boy, a friend of Ryou's, who had come to bring him back to the mundane realm—oh, Bakura was so angry," remembered Mana. "He was going mad with fear—pacing like something wild in a cage. They fought, and after that, in the evening, Ryou disappeared. Bakura's been deteriorating since then. I think—" she leaned closer, speaking quick and low "—I think Ryou was something like Sara, a hold on Bakura's magic. With both anchors gone, his magic is draining swiftly away from him. No demonic body can support that kind of rapid loss, and there is nothing a demonic mind fears more than a body without magic. It will kill him and drive him mad before he dies—that I know."

"Shaitan," Marikku murmured. "Shaitan; he left him like that! But souls have no love for demonic masters, that we know as well."

"It was different, in this case," said Mana, with a hard smile. She was collecting herself slowly. "I won't believe that Ryou willingly ran. He was stolen by Kaiba's vampire."

Marikku frowned at her and raised a bauble of light at his fingertips so he could see her more easily. Her teeth glinted. "A vampire?"

Mana was almost tripping over her words now; an eager and warm reflection of the tiny flame glowed in her eyes. "Bakura was keeping Ryou in a room with a sealed door—the hinges had been melted. When we discovered that Ryou was gone, we also found that door lying in pieces in the hallway, and a good chunk of castle wall torn clear away. It was not magical damage but the result of sheer strength, and Kaiba had a vampire with him. He'd known the other human boy, but certainly not the vampire. I think Ryou was taken—I'm right; I know I am."

"I'll have to disagree," said Marikku, rising as he extinguished the light. She rose with him. "No soul slave is that dedicated, not even—" He stopped. _Not even Malik, and she knows exactly what I was going to say._

She was watching him shrewdly.

"You were listening at the door," said Marikku. "When I went in."

She shrugged. "I had to make sure. When he's raving he still recognizes me; he won't tell me anything more than I already know. Bakura is very clever. He's only careless when he wants to be."

"You're a match for him," said Marikku. He put his hand on the banister. "Always one step ahead." _Bakura is never careful; he is only lucky. _

She took his wrist again. "Will you look after him?"

Marikku stared down into the tower; three steps away from his feet, the stairs appeared to have been swallowed up by darkness. Pathetic drops of blue light dotted the treacherous descent. "That's your duty, isn't it?" he said. "Mistress Mana."

"Yes," she said. "That's my duty. But he needs Ryou back—that's my duty, too."

"If it were Malik," Marikku told her, when they had reached the kitchen door, "he would have stayed with me." _Because I'm not his master. Because I'd kill him if he ever meant to leave me. Because he'd kill _me_ if I ever meant to let him go._

"Ryou is different," she said, wrenching and slamming back the bolts. The locks had mostly rusted; they were difficult. "Will you?"

Marikku tugged at the hood of his cloak. "When he is better, and this Ryou has been returned to him, you will tell Bekhara that he is a sentimental idiot after all. And that I want a case of vodka for babysitting him." They shared a fierce grin, and he went out into the street. She closed the door after him.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Jou had thought Kaiba might look nice while sleeping—kind of peaceful. As it was, there was still that frown working between the guy's eyebrows and the sharp downturn of the mouth; just how was it that someone managed to look annoyed while unconscious? Jou figured it was a demon thing, and smoothed the bangs away from Kaiba's forehead. He was trying not to look at the burned strip on the demon's neck, which had gone from third-degree to an odd reddened pucker in the hours since the angels had attacked, and which scared him as much as the warmth of Kaiba's skin. You didn't just _heal _like that. And if you were Kaiba, you just didn't get _hit_ like that.

_Bastards, _he thought dimly. He stroked a pale temple and watched the faint sheen of sweat across the bridge of Kaiba's nose.

"We didn't blow up," he told Kaiba somewhat inanely, since Kaiba wasn't getting up and trying to kill him. He said this without breathing much because the ribs were still broken, and the burned arm too, and his lungs were giving an ominous sort of crackle every time he did inhale. "You could at least grunt," he added. And then: "You asshole." He shifted, felt the upper half of arm shift with him, and winced.

Something else shifted with the lower part of the bone; it was a quiet little rustle, like papers being shuffled. Jou turned—only a bit because, hell, it _really hurt to twist around_—and gave a sort of involuntary gasp. The ribs protested with a loud creak.

The girl, kneeling beside him, spared him a single impassive glance, eyes like frosted glass. She seemed a bit misty around the edges, though, and Jou could see the medal-decorated wall of the room through her body. Her fingers were just ghosting into existence; she reached out and laced them with Kaiba's.

She wore the same frock as she had on the roof at Bakura's castle; the curls of her silvery hair were immaculate. It was her petticoats that had been rustling as she materialized, but now she was barely making a sound—barely breathing. Her gaze was blank as she looked down at Kaiba, following the shallow movements of his chest.

"Hey," said Jou. She turned to him again, waiting. "Er," he said, stumbling a little at the sight of her empty stare. "You're that girl—from the roof. Right?"

She nodded and resumed her watch.

"Look," said Jou, fumbling for the right words. She didn't look at him this time. _Shit—what's her name? _"Is there any way you can—fix him? He's _warm._ Oh! Er. It's Kisara, right?"

Blinding, wintry cold enveloped him. Maybe he was still shell shocked, but he sat there and took it without being too surprised. The blue glow wrapped around his limbs, rattled the broken bones like some kind of weird wind, drowned out the throbbing of his burns and cooled the pain with ice. Something was vibrating just below his throat; his fingertips tingled. And then it left him in a whoosh, sucked his breath away as it went—the girl wasn't there anymore and Jounouchi Katsuya was just beginning to realize just how damned _hot_ it was in that room.

He could feel the distinct cool press of her hand against his, though he couldn't see it. He knew she'd let go of Kaiba's hand just then, because he could feel fingers so cold they burned working down the side of his face, then his arm.

Suddenly, without really knowing what he was doing, he stretched out his own hand and pushed the palm flat against Kaiba's neck, against that weird, knotted pucker. Held it there, counted to ten, then twenty. She'd gone—that girl had filtered out entirely—but the frigid imprint of her touch remained with him. The burn pains had eased considerably. His bones ached like they were knitting together. He imagined that he was doing the same for Kaiba.

And he had. Jou pulled his hand away and saw that the palm of it looked a little boiled; he saw the sweat on Kaiba's neck beading into frost and the dying moments of the pucker as it writhed and froze and vanished. Part of Kaiba's hair had gone stiff with dried blood; that hadn't changed, though as Jou pressed the fingers of his other hand to the cut there, it too warped and disappeared.

He whistled. "Shit."

They were still talking outside, a low murmur beneath the blood singing in Jou's ears. Some of the frown had gone from Kaiba's face; that was good. Jou looked down at his palms and examined the life-lines carefully, then did the same for his knuckles. His fingertips were looking like boiled lobster but he was otherwise alright.

_Shaitan before your eyes,_ said a whisper in his brain. He sat fiddling with a loose string on Kaiba's collar, watching as the frown slipped and loosened and at last disappeared.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Getting Bakura to bed should have earned her a raise, Mana thought wearily. She bit at her thumb as she rifled through the files. She'd found them stuffed between building lease documents, recorded on fresh parchment; Bakura had recopied them perfectly.

_Hatakeyama, Amano. Jansen, Kace. Sohn, Jin-Ho—Bakura, Ryou._

Bakura had drawn in the margins of Ryou's contract and scribbled stars and "important!" in the spaces not occupied by his stick figures. Mana slipped the sheaf of papers into a separate folder. She left that folder on Bakura's desk and gathered the rest of the files into a stack, hesitating a moment before grabbing the lease, too, and stuffing that haphazardly into a pocket of her apron. She didn't waste time with the stairs and switched immediately back into the kitchen.

Anzu was waiting at the table—Mana had managed to remove some of the filth—in her pink power suit, fingers resting at the clasp of a baby pink purse, blowing a pink bubble.

"Thank you for coming on such short notice," said Mana. She did not sit, but withdrew the files and slapped them onto the tabletop.

"What are friends for?" Anzu replied, smoothing her skirt. She looked through the documents, tapping her hot pink heels against the legs of her chair. The bubble burst and she sucked it back into her mouth, chewing contemplatively. "What's this, then? Soul records?"

Mana bared her teeth in a smile. "I have a proposal for you, Lazy Anzu."

"Let's hear it," said Anzu, snapping her purse open and withdrawing a pad of chalk-pink paper and a ballpoint pen.

Mana struck the stack of papers with the flat of her hand. "These are the files of twenty-nine soul slaves, valued at thirty-two thousand severs, roughly eleven thousand a head. I understand that Master Bakura owes you around fifteen thousand severs." She leaned forward, feeling a hard and dark pleasure. "These are escaped slaves, Lady Anzu. Bakura is ill, and I am acting as his voice. I will free these slaves into your care. They're yours."

"Thirty-two thousand," Anzu murmured.

"Hunt them down," Mana continued, "and do whatever you'd like with them. That should cover the past year's rent and another eighteen months' worth."

"To my knowledge," said Anzu shrewdly, "Bakura had at least thirty-six soul slaves in his possession at the time of my last visit."

Mana gestured at the kitchen that was crumbling around them. "Thirty-five. We will need our own funds to refurbish the castle," she said mildly. "Thirty-two thousand is enough for you, isn't it, Lady Anzu?"

Anzu blew another bubble. "Oh, yes," she said.

"Then it's settled," said Mana. She thumped the heel of her hand against the papers again. "Here are the files for all thirty-five. Choose your own twenty-nine out of the whole; you are welcome to do as you please with them. I'd like the money generated from the sales of the remaining six, however, and a binding agreement stating that you will do as I've asked."

Anzu swept a pink-nailed finger through the air and pulled the contract from the area near her ankle. "You don't want them back?" she said, handing Mana her pen. "That's very interesting."

Mana read through the conditions, and, finding them satisfactory, signed at the dotted line. _M. Kanakht. _"Customers like to see new faces," she said, reveling in newfound black triumph. _They betrayed us; they will not escape._

Anzu looped her own signature across the left corner. "A pleasure, as always, Mana," she said.

"Mm," said Mana. "Thank you." Anzu folded the contract primly and tucked it back into the hidden compartment hovering by her left leg. Her lower body dissolved into pixels; she beamed her shimmering pink smile at Mana and gave a little wave of her fingers before disappearing entirely.

In that moment, Mana felt that she was capable of toppling empires. She let that warlike joy carry her out of the kitchen and up the many flights of stairs that led to Bakura's study. She planned to examine Ryou's file in detail; by dawn, she would know where he had been taken. She would find him; she would bring him back to Bakura.

She said her apologies to Mahaado silently. Until she found Ryou, she would have to let him sleep cold in the earth.

_I understand, _he would have said. _My Mana!_

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

A/N: It's been so long! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. We get back to Ryou in the next one. (Which will likely be ready by March.) A HEARTFELT THANK YOU to all the dear readers who stuck with this story. I intend to finish it.


	13. the new mother

FAUST  
yuugiou fanfiction  
ryuujitsu & co.  
chapter thirteen: the new mother

Disclaimer: Saying we own Yuugiou is like saying Visual Kei is dead. That's a lie! That's a damned lie!

A/N: Get ready for hella big paragraphs and inexplicable time-jumps! Without further ado. . .

ITFTC:

"prague is like a little mother with claws"

- franz kafka

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

There was an almighty clang as Yuugi brained the assassin with the chamber pot. It was a big, glistening silver affair; Yami hadn't thought it could be lifted, at least not without magic. Panting, Yuugi hefted it for another blow. Yami would have saved him the trouble, but at that moment another demon leapt in through the window, fists and brass knuckles extended. That one was off balance, and Yami ducked, slamming a flaming palm into his face. He wondered why they didn't just switch in, or plan their flashy entrances better.

Still, with numbers alone their opponents had the upper hand—four down, one tottering about in a daze, and at least a dozen more to go, Yami counted. And he hadn't seen the ones waiting outside the door, though he had seen their clubs.

_What are they going to do, bludgeon us to death?_ _Messy. _Yami watched as Yuugi raised the pot again, gulping for breath. When he whacked his man this time, he didn't bother holding on to it; he dropped it on the poor bastard's head and snatched up the fire poker. Yami was surprised the demon's head hadn't cracked open under the weight of the pot.

He arched his back and just managed to avoid the right hook coming at him. His attacker was looking singed and more than a little annoyed.

"Sixth level's _fire!_" He supposed that going to such an upscale inn and then bathing in full view of the windows had been a singularly stupid idea. Not since the Great War mess at Dertres had so idiotic an idea been formulated. . .

Yuugi's maneuvers were smooth and controlled; he moved like water and jabbed with the poker like it had been his weapon of choice all his life. Yami had never taken to the sword arts himself, but he imagined that Yuugi must have been well-trained—

A hand seized him by the ankle and dragged him down.

"_Hae!_" shouted Yuugi.

Yami hadn't really taken to jiujitsu either. Struggling was much more his forte; he kicked out desperately and sent up a lot of sparks, wriggling for all he was worth. He managed to knee one of them in the groin and cause third degree burns in the two that remained. Dimly he could hear Yuugi trying to fight his way over, and the vague sizzle and horrific wail that followed it that could only mean that Yuugi had shoved the poker back into the fire before doing anything else. He wanted to tell Yuugi to keep his back to the wall; it was far safer that way—

"Shaitan!" he yelled in fright, as a demon with the brass knuckles reappeared, now clutching at the chamber pot. He started using his elbows; Brass Knuckles glowered down at him and heaved.

Then the chamber pot flew up and away, and Brass Knuckles had a split second to look thoroughly bewildered before Shaadi, legs still half-pixels, delivered a smart blow to his left temple and killed him on the spot.

If Yami had been less surprised, he might have yelled again. As it was, he could only gape.

"Lord Shaadi!" gasped the demon who had Yami in a chokehold. Shaadi slew him with a little breath of power.

"Gah?" offered Yami finally, elbowing the corpse hard in the stomach and crawling away. And then, once he had clambered to his feet, he added somewhat more intelligently, "Shaadi!"

The fighting had ground to a halt with the death of the second demon. Shaadi breathed again and the chamber pot fell to the ground with a terrific crash. They stared at him and he stared back with wild eyes. Shaadi's turban was half undone, coiling around his shoulders; his hair was matted. He went swiftly to the window, where another assassin crouched uncertainly, and pushed him from the sill with a savage burst of magic, then turned to Yuugi with a look that said, _Well, what are you waiting for?_

_Shit,_ thought Yami, who wasn't sure what else he _could _think at the moment.

Yuugi gave the assassin in the doorway a tentative prod with the fire poker. The demon yowled and charged. Yami leapt the table in the center of the room, upsetting the vase as he went. He grabbed Yuugi by the arm not wielding the poker, threw a fireball into the face of the angel's attacker, pivoted for the door—the vase teetered at the edge of the table, then fell—there was still time to make a break for it—_shit,_ though Yami again. _Shit, shit, ga-aaah—_

Shaadi, moving faster than Yami had ever thought anybody could move, seized them both by the shoulder and switched them out.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Domino City was quiet at night. More than once, Ryou had caught himself listening hard for the constant rumbling of Dahlia and waiting for vibrations to start in the floor. It was long past midnight now, and he was doing his best to ignore the foggy blue of the kitchen chair, which he could see quite clearly through his thighs. His head felt hot and wooly in the calm. He sat on his hands and watched his father, waiting.

Yaten Bakura seemed to be in no particular hurry. He bent low into the refrigerator, head and back hidden from view, searching through its contents. "Beer?" he offered, straightening with a black Sapporo can in hand.

Ryou started and stared at his father with wide eyes.

"Can you drink?" said Yaten, peering closely at him. "Eat anything?"

Ryou remembered a blueberry muffin, broken glass, a kiss. "No," he said quietly, curling his fingers against the chair, "I don't think so." His legs felt light; his toes were an insubstantial presence against the floor.

"No," said Yaten, slumping into the chair opposite Ryou. He snapped the beer open and drank from it, a single deep gulp. "No, I suppose you wouldn't be able to."

They sat in silence, a matched pair—both weary-eyed and fading. Yaten stared out the window, tapping his fingers against the beer. Beads of condensation were forming across the black metal. He drank from it again, then pushed the can away and wiped his hands on his pants. Ryou watched him swallow.

"Dad," he began tentatively. "I know—I know that Mum's not dead."

Yaten jerked in his chair. He gazed dully out into the city for another moment. "It's about the same. She's left us for good," he said. "She told me she would not be returning."

"Tell me about her," Ryou said. _She flew away. It wasn't a dream. _"Tell me everything about her. Please."

Yaten exhaled. There was a long pause before he breathed again.

"I really was born in this city," he said. "But my family was from Osaka—I went to university there. I met her in England—in Bournesmouth. It was at the Jurassic Coast. That was before I decided I'd go into Egyptology." He folded his hands on the table and smiled down at them, looking wistful. "It was a cold day, foggy. She was standing at the very edge of the water. She was wearing a blue scarf—I remember that. . .standing over the waves, looking at something I couldn't see. I suppose it was a mermaid." He chuckled bitterly.

"Did you know already that—" Ryou faltered and then fell silent as his father gave the beer another swift push. Ryou reached for the can as it spun toward the edge of the table and felt a shock as his fingers sank a centimeter in before the can slowed.

_Fading away._

Yaten saw; he sucked in a breath. "No," he said, "not then. Of course, I thought she was magic—but then, I was enamored—completely enchanted." He passed a hand over his face. "After she left, I began wondering if I'd. . .really been enchanted.

"You know about selkie women," he went on, glancing at Ryou. "I know you've kept some of her books. 'They walk along the shore with their feet bare and their hems wet. It may be a cold day, but they wear their summer dresses and their hair is damp; their arms glisten and are slick with water. For seven years you will have luck at sea, if you wed a selkie woman.'" He smiled. "When I met her I was an assistant; I wrote the Egyptian government for digging permits and supervised the diggers, never touched an artifact myself.

"I returned to England to supervise the transport of artifacts; I went to Egypt on business less and less. She had Amane while I was away on a short trip, and four years later we had you—that was the way we'd planned it. And twelve years of luck we had."

"'But treat her well,'" said Ryou, remembering and suddenly feeling cold, "'and love her without end, or her sea-kin will empty your nets and drown you in the waves. It is a dangerous bride you bring into your home.'"

Yaten took the beer from him and toyed with the can. "I was promoted shortly after you were born—into fieldwork at last. I had my own sites to pick and operate. God, the things we found! The deserts were overflowing. And I spent six months in Egypt at first—then a full year—" He sighed heavily. "It was wonderful, for me—the realization of a dream. I had Egypt; I had a family; I had Clara."

"You abandoned us!" said Ryou, more loudly than he had meant to. He flushed and stared down at the table. The back of his neck burned. He softened his voice. "She missed you." _She had a calendar to count the days—Amane and I fought over who got to mark it—_

When he looked up again, Yaten was gazing at him steadily.

"Yes," he said. "That's what I did. And it ended our happiness."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

In all of his seventeen years, Jounouchi Katsuya had never imagined that he would have to engage in close hand-to-hand combat with a demon—certainly not when his arm was broken and it hurt to breathe. He'd thought of it before, when Kaiba was being a prick, but not even _he _was that stupid. And he hadn't started it! He hadn't done anything! He was locked in a room with Kaiba, and Kaiba was fucking _crazy!_

"Katsuya!" said Kaiba, low and dangerous, with a hiss to his voice like the hiss of the magic he'd just sent swooping at Jou's head.

Jou yelled and dropped down, rolling out of the way. Little blasts of power pecked and stung at him as he went; ice exploded in a shower of fragments just above his left shoulder. The floor shook; an invisible wind whistled and shrieked, knocking several of the trophies to the ground.

"What the fuck, you bastard!" he screamed.

Kaiba came at him like a snake, all sinew and speed. Jaws snapping, the neck and head of an ice-blue dragon lunged out from Kaiba's closed fist. The neck extended; the jaws whipped toward Jou. Jou yelled again, then yelped as he tripped over an upended trophy and hit the wall with the broken side of his ribcage. The dragon, bellowing and biting, hurtled forward and then shattered in front of his eyes. Cold blasted his face; the dragon's roar echoed in his ears.

Kaiba snarled in frustration and brought his hand up, palm flat, to hit. Jou _felt_ the demon's magic snap back into his body; he had repulsed it somehow, pushed it away. He brought the unbroken arm up to counter the strike and elbowed Kaiba in the gut.

Kaiba choked, but a moment later he was hitting Jou again, catching him on the shoulders, the face, the stomach. He was beating at him with open hands, glancing blows, Jou realized;_ like a girl_, he thought with inward glee, and he pushed forward and caught Kaiba by the neck. Kaiba strained against him. Jou let the plan form in his head; he crooked his arm and threw Kaiba to the floor.

He followed a second later with a kick, driving his heel deep into Kaiba's side. Kaiba grunted and caught his foot; a sharp tug and Jou was down. He landed badly, on the broken arm, and the fall knocked the wind out of him.

"Bastard," he wheezed. Where was Otogi? "Gnh—"

Kaiba, panting, rolled them both over and pinned Jou there. When he drew back his hand—in a fist, this time—Jou could see the dragon uncoiling from between the whitened knuckles. He kneed Kaiba in the stomach once more and used the momentum to roll them _again_ and sat on Kaiba's arms. He pulled his arm back—

"You _mongrel,_" said Kaiba, and the sharpness of his voice almost made Jou still—almost. "_How dare you!_"

"What the fuck did I do?" Jou shouted at him, driving his fist into that sneering mouth. And here was his chance, because Kaiba was hurt and tired and it didn't matter that his whole body ached; here was his chance to beat the shit out of this guy like he'd been wanting to for weeks—

"You asshole!" said Jou, grinding the left side of Kaiba's face into the floor. "Asshole—asshole—"

—for weeks—wanting—

_She struck him fiercely on the cheek, and in the dream-vision the noise seemed to resound infinitely. Kaiba's head snapped to the side. . ._

"Fuck," Jou muttered. He sat back on his heels. Kaiba lay the way Jou's punch had left him, his head turned to the side. He watched Jou warily with his right eye and breathed. His upper lip was beginning to swell; the lower lip had been torn open. His nose was bleeding.

Jou reached forward, offering his sleeve. "Sorry," he said, and meant it; shame overwhelmed him in a single hot blast. _Hit a guy when he's down? _"Sorry, I—"

"Fuck off," said Kaiba. His voice was diamond-hard.

Jou didn't move. His own voice, when it came out, sounded weird to his ears: a little too soft, too low, like he was talking to a frightened animal instead of the guy he'd been trying to beat to a bloody pulp a minute ago. "Your nose is bleeding," he said.

"I said fuck off," snarled Kaiba.

"Whoa, whoa," said Otogi. He was standing in the doorway with his arm around the blonde kid and the woman—Lady Isis—watching beside him. "What's going on? What did you do?" he said to Jou. His eyes widened as he saw the blood; he passed the blonde kid quietly to Lady Isis and slipped into the room, closing the door as he did so.

He came to stand beside Jou, silent but for the clink of his dice earrings. Jou watched the inky black strands of Otogi's hair sliding across his face as he knelt.

"Your nose is bleeding," said Otogi to Kaiba. Kaiba didn't say anything, but he winced a little—and Jou winced with him—as Otogi reached down gently to pinch the bridge of his swollen and bloodied nose.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

The candle, alone on the windowsill, sputtered in the night air and gave off a dim, flickering circle of light. Isis set the tea kettle on the mat and sat down beside it with a noisy sigh. Dark, bitter, and strong, it was an Ishtal variety, one of the few species of plants cultivated by great-aunt Nadine that _hadn't_ been poisonous. It was good tea, but Isis suspected that brandy might well be the better remedy in this situation.

Marikku grabbed the kettle and poured himself a cup. He breathed in the steam, then mirrored her sigh. "Not alcohol," he said sadly.

"You'll have to adapt," said Isis. "It's been a long night."

"Malik?" Marikku asked. He tilted his head and tossed the tea back like it was vodka, wincing at the taste.

"Snug in bed," she replied, resolutely _not _thinking about Malik, vampires, and the Kaiba heir bleeding all over generations' worth of trophies. "And how is Bakura, brother?" she said. "Draped in admirers and flamboyant as usual, I suppose?"

Marikku's composure rippled and began to crack. "Let's finish this tea first," he said, pouring a second cup and helping Isis to her first.

"Are we going to need it?" she said, with considerable dread.

Marikku looked haunted. "Yes," he said. "Shaitan."

They sat in silence. Isis gulped tea for all she was worth, trying to swallow the lump in her throat. She felt twenty years old again, the new head of a dying dynasty. For a moment her father's sarcophagus loomed before her eyes—_but Gozaburo is dead_. But at that time she'd known exactly who she was fighting, and there had been Shaadi beside her and only Marikku to protect. The stakes were probably higher now, and whoever the enemy was, there was no guarantee that Shaadi wasn't helping them. . .

Marikku made another face. "Dregs," he said in disgust, chewing on them; she snapped back to the present.

There was another long pause; Isis prompted her brother with her eyes. _Well?_

Marikku set his cup down. "He's ill, Isis," he said, his tone flat with despair. "He's going mad. His grave faerie is no longer part of the household, and the last anchor on his power has vanished, presumably back into the mundane realm. His magic is draining from him and taking his mind in the process. His apprentice doesn't know what to do; she can't sustain the castle defenses by herself and the entire place fallen into disrepair. He's wasting away. He will die if something isn't done—if we can't do something. I can't imagine, Isis—" He broke off. "I can't imagine. . .we've known each other for a long time, Bakura and I."

"Don't say that; you sound like an old geezer," said Isis, but her voice was weak. _Pull yourself together,_ she told herself sternly.

"Come now, Isis," said Marikku, trying to smile. "You know he's practically been a fixture of this castle since we met, at least until he started ailing. If he—"

"Piffle," Isis snapped, cutting him off. "Describe the symptoms."

Marikku did grin, then—a flash in the darkness. "That's what I wanted," he said. "That's exactly what I wanted. I thought that between the two of us we'd sort things out."

"It's three in the morning," said Isis. "But let's try."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

It was a small, blackened metal box with a broken clasp. Mana upended it and dumped its contents onto the headstand; bracelets, necklaces, earrings, and all manner of adornments tumbled onto the grimy surface and lay glittering there. She surveyed the gleaming pile for a moment, feeling the first undercurrent of guilt since she'd removed the box from Bakura's bedside. _Like a common maid—stealing your master's jewelry._ She reassured herself by thinking that while common maids might take a piece at a time, without their mistresses' knowledge, Bakura had definitely known—hadn't he even said to take the entire box? And wasn't he sitting just beside her, watching?

It wasn't jewelry she was after. These were, she thought as she sifted through them, the little trinkets that Bakura had been in the habit of giving to souls if they pleased him in some way. She wanted the amulets, and she was sure he had a few of them tangled among the pendants and beads and whatnots. She remembered Ryou's ankh for a moment and felt her gut twinge with envy; _that _had been no common pendant, and certainly not the everyday protective baubles that could be found in the marketplace. That ankh put all other amulets to shame—

Her fingers closed on a small, golden wadjet eye. This one had a pupil, a carefully-set opal. Long ago, she had laughed at Master Mahaado's collection of mundane amulets—three more days in his household, and she'd understood the power inside these items. Mundane magicians were not to be taken lightly.

She found another, a blue faience hippopotamus, its round belly girdled with a thin chain of silver. Lastly, she chose a scarab carved from milky gray stone. She squeezed it and felt a sudden hum of warmth.

She would not be using these for luck; it was their power she needed. Ten days of sustaining the castle's defenses had taken its toll on her. She would use the magic inside these amulets when her ties to the underworld waned. They were, after all, much stronger in the land of their origin. _Like caffeine pills._

Bakura's spidery hands took the wadjet ring and slipped it onto Mana's finger. She jolted a little at his touch, and glanced up to see him smiling wanly at her.

"Where are you going, Mana-doll?" he said. He was sprawled across the counter, seemingly unable to lift his head. She felt a raw tightness in her chest as she saw the hollows of his cheeks, mercilessly deepened by the kitchen lights.

"To the marketplace," she said.

His smile became hunger-sharp for a moment, then faded. He yawned, cat-like, and stretched. Magic shook like black dust from his shoulders and dissipated. "You'd better get me a present."

"Of course," she said. She found a green jasper ouroboros and pressed it into his hand. "I'll come back."

He looked down at the amulet and traced the snake tail with his thumb. Mana saw his eyes widen as he recognized it, and knew from the jerk of his shoulders and the quick breath he took that he was going to laugh—

"At noon," she added loudly, stopping him at the first harsh, wrenching wheeze. "I'll be back at noon." It gave her at least nine hours to search, and she could always go out again. . .

"Of course you will, poppet," he murmured, his eyes on the ouroboros.

She tucked the hippopotamus into her left apron pocket and the scarab into the right and grabbed an indeterminate handful of jewels and amulets, stuffing those into her satchel.

"Take my cloak," said Bakura suddenly. A heartbeat later, it was hovering beside her. Mana snatched it from its place in the air and whirled, an angry chastisement on her lips. "Master Bakura—!"

The reprimand died. He was sitting upright, face gone yellow, smiling a dreadful smile. He held the broken pieces of the ouroboros with the snake's head in one hand, tail in the other. As she watched, the pewter crumbled, as if into ash, and fell through Bakura's fingers to the table.

"Take it," he insisted.

_That's right,_ she realized as she walked through the wall and into the city beyond. She threw the cloak over her shoulders and tugged at the hood. _That's right._ As if a single amulet would satisfy the gaping, all-devouring hole in Bakura's magic. She doubted anything could. _He didn't have to take it so literally,_ she thought sourly. But then, the ouroboros was for regeneration—she supposed Bakura had rejected that, too.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

"Clara had wanted to home-school the two of you," Yaten said. "For a long time, I never suspected—"

Ryou moved to the window. He stood looking out over the city as his father talked; six girls had just come into the apartment a few stories below and switched on all the lights. He held his hands against the glass and looked through them, watching as two of the girls went immediately to the television, turning it on and spreading themselves across the sofa there.

"Then there are tales of the crane wives," Yaten continued. "If curiosity seizes you and makes you forget your vow—if you spy them weaving, they will leave you. I found her one day teaching Amane how to grow flowers from her hands—red pansies. I confronted her later that evening. . .I thought I was seeing things, going crazy. But she told me a pretty mess of lies. She said she'd been born with a gift, that she was estranged from her parents because they had wanted her to marry someone with magic in their blood. She'd run to London with someone else, but her heritage frightened him, and that he'd left her. She wanted to tell me, she said, but she'd been afraid I wouldn't accept it—and now I was going to leave her, just like he had—

"I believed every word of it. She told me that Amane had been born with the same magic, and that it would have been a waste of the gift if she hadn't taught her, but that you were 'normal'; she begged me not to leave her! I told her she was mad if she thought I'd abandon her. . .I wasn't to hear the real story until—until the accident. There was no more hiding it, after that."

He was quiet for what seemed like an hour, following Ryou's gaze out the window.

"Tell me," said Ryou unsteadily.

"I was home that day. You'd been sick for a week; antibiotics hadn't helped. Amane was with you in the kitchen, doing her homework. Clara was downstairs with me in the study when we heard her screaming. Clara went _white_, white to the lips, and sprinted for the stairs; I ran after her. You were. . .you had Amane by the arm, and she was already disappearing—disappearing _into _you, screaming for help. She—" His voice broke. "She snatched at your mother's hands, at my hands, but she passed right through us—"

_Ryou! Ryou, what are you doing? Mom! Mom!_

"And then she'd vanished entirely. You didn't respond to anything we said—you sat there like—like you were _digesting_ her—"

And that had begun his father's fear of him, Ryou thought numbly. _Absorbed her—digested—_

"You didn't remember anything, afterward. But it had frightened Clara, and she told me everything.

"She'd come to England for a reason—not to marry a sweetheart. Some time ago, her people had been involved in a terrible war; her father had been killed in the fighting, in fact. The other side had come close to obliterating them, thanks to an incredible weapon. But the magicians on their side had managed to halt the losses; they'd pulled some magic away from their enemies, crippling them. There was no way to destroy that magic and no way to absorb it, but they could shape it—so they constructed two bodies. It was a wildly outlandish scheme, a desperate one. They sent Clara here along with a network of supporting angelics—to the mundane realm, she called it—to complete the project. She was to raise the two of you among humans and prevent you from ever rejoining the whole.

"But she had failed, somehow—against all their predictions and hopes. You had been ill for a long time, and, to replenish the energy, she told me, you'd just absorbed the weaker body into your own. She told me we'd been raising a monster—"

In the apartment across the street, the lights were turned off, then the television. "They should have destroyed the two of you, she said, before this happened. They should have found a way. She shouldn't have accepted. Shouldn't have married me.

"It wasn't meant, she told me," said his father, "to be so painful."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

"I figured that Bakura was a mercenary before the war, one of the for-hire types," said Marikku. Isis had been listening quietly to his theories, interrupting once or twice to agree or disagree with his speculations. Now it was her turn to speak.

Isis smiled. "You should pay attention to what guests have to say at the dinner table," she chided. "We don't entertain for frivolous reasons in this family. Mahaado—you remember Mahaado, don't you?—said Bakura was young and hungry; he wanted to take him for an apprentice, but Bakura refused. He allied himself with some of the lesser masters in the cities; Mahaado, Sugoroku, they all spoke well of him. No one knew what he wanted, and for a long time no one minded him. He was an upstart mage, one of the agitators against Shaitan, but not powerful enough to cause the magician circle of Shaitan's court any worry."

She frowned. "Somehow, he must have risen in influence—enough to frighten them. When you first brought him to Uster to meet me, after the war. . .Marikku, I'll be blunt. I thought I'd seen him before, as one of Gozaburo's demons. No doubt once the rebellion had been quelled, the Council kept him as a prisoner and sent him into a hopeless war to die along with the rest of the conspirators. You know that he's older than you, Marikku, by a good ten years—a bit too old to be caught up on a wave of patriotism."

"Or the desire to avoid imminent patricide," said Marikku wryly. "Well, if that was the Council's plan, it backfired. He didn't die. He became the most powerful demon the underworld has seen in centuries—Shaitan, he all but defeated the entire angelic army single-handedly—"

"He's living on borrowed time," said Isis. "Marikku. No matter how he did it, that power was gained unnaturally. Whatever agreement he made must have been _pockmarked _with traps."

_"I made a deal," said Bakura in Marikku's memory, his voice low and hoarse. "With something older than us—older and much darker, and powerful, Marikku. Power like you wouldn't believe. I sought Them out; I called Them down. I told Them, 'Give it to me. That's what I want—I want to crush them.'. . .I wanted blood. I found what made our world—even before the war, I'd been searching, you remember—I found Them, and I asked Them to give it to me: magic enough to destroy armies. Shaitan, that magic. . ."_

"'With what made our world,'" Marikku said, feeling cold. "He made a deal. . .and he broke it."

Isis' frown deepened. "Bakura is arrogant," she said, "but he's not so much of a fool to think he could ignore the—" she choked on it like they all did "—those older magicks."

"It was bloodlust," said Marikku. "I remember. . ."

_Stand by me, Ishtal._ And he had killed—beside Bakura, arms like windmills, angels falling all around—and when the last battle had finished, when by all rights Bakura should have stopped, he hadn't. Marikku remembered it—Bakura like death itself, half-mad or perhaps entirely, going from angel to angel, destroying those that still lived one by one. . .Medusa, the great cat, followed him—a present from Marikku, when they had first met, according to the old dances—and then, the last one, that aging angel, the thousandth of thousands—

"Marikku? You're drifting."

He shook himself out of it. "I suppose They—if They're sentient—I suppose that was one of the traps. They knew he would lose himself and break the contract. It was an unfair agreement to begin with, but—" He paused. "But I think Bakura had always planned to die—he'd wanted to die, and Medusa. . ."

He'd reached them a moment later, still screaming, as Bakura spat blood and crumpled to the ground. And Medusa had draped herself around him and gone to sleep—the angel was there, even with crushed wings and a face now half blown away, he looked peaceful, smiling. Marikku had wondered if he'd known what his death would do to Bakura—

"I'd meant her for you," said Isis severely. "To guard _you_—to protect _your _life."

Even with eight tails she'd been a sight to see, remembered Marikku—still the size of a tiger, though under Bakura's shaking hand she'd been as gentle as a housecat. The memory of Bakura's hand had been burned into Marikku's memory—lily-white, trembling as Bakura lifted it and slipped it around Medusa's head; he heard his own disbelieving shout, echoing across the battlefield. _Shaitan!_

_Beliaf and Mammon,_ Bakura had groaned, opening his eyes. _What's happened?_

_The war's over,_ Marikku had told him, thinking that the angels had probably already sued for peace. _I thought you'd died, you Shaitan-blessed idiot, you moron, ah—_

Bakura hadn't remembered anything, but the next night he'd woken everyone who'd survived the final battle with his screaming. But the war was over and Marikku took him home to Uster, to meet Isis.

"I'm not quite as attractive to Death," said Marikku. "He's had to use her twice now."

"Well, what should be done?" said Isis, turning to her bookshelf. "He's lost both grave faeries, and his servant is absolutely correct—they are hard to come by."

"Both faeries?" repeated Marikku, feeling puzzled. "No, sister—there was only one."

"But you said his other anchor escaped," she said, looking at him in equal bewilderment. "I assumed he'd purchased another faerie to compensate for the increasing loss of his magic."

"No, no—it was a soul-slave," said Marikku. "One he'd purchased recently."

"A _soul slave?_" Isis brought a hand to her mouth and bit at her fingers. She was thinking hard, Marikku knew, on the verge of a realization. "A soul slave. . .Marikku! What are the three forbiddens?"

"'Break heaven,'" Marikku recited automatically. "Falling, and 'raise hades,' necromancy—"

He stopped, leaping to his feet, and she took her hand away from her lips. They shared a look of alarm. Around the castle, the wards had begun to drop, falling one after another. Isis winced and Marikku felt his own skull twinge in sympathy; the wards were tied directly to her and she felt their losses as individual pinpricks to the brain, the beginnings of a massive headache.

"The Big Five?" said Marikku, and the room brightened as he generated a fistful of sunlight, magic to burn and kill.

Isis gritted her teeth. "They won't have you!" she snapped, and she was calling on older defenses now, the glass in her hair tinkling and cracking—

Indistinct shapes flickered before them, and before they had coalesced completely, Marikku was running toward them, arm outstretched. He brought his hand down with a yell—

—and Shaadi caught his elbow, forcing him to extinguish the blast.

"Shaadi?" said Marikku, igniting another flare in his palm as he stepped nimbly back, circling him. "They sent you to take me?" But Isis' hand on his shoulder stalled him, and he looked down to see what she had seen. The light died in his hand and he lit it again, moving it past Shaadi's wild face, past the diminutive angel—_an angel—_and—

Atemuyami must have taken after his mother, but there was no mistaking the blood-red eyes of Shaitan.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

"Jeez, don't look so depressed," said Otogi. "He's coming back. You look like you've been abandoned." He chuckled. "Forlorn little puppy you'd make."

"Shut up," said Jou flatly, scanning the street below for any movement. "Just—shut up. I mean it."

_"Not you, Kaiba," the woman said, and they paused at the door. Jou looked at her curiously; she was watching Kaiba closely, all tense like she was expecting him to attack her. The blonde boy was looking at Otogi with equal intensity, one part regret, two parts anxiety. "I'd like to speak with you."_

_"That suits me," Kaiba replied, and though his voice was blank, Jou heard a similar undercurrent of wariness._

_"But—" Jou began._

_"Thank you for your hospitality," Otogi interrupted, taking Jou's now-healed arm in an iron grip. "I realize my methods of entry were a bit questionable, but you understand that I was hardly in the right mind at the time, my friends being injured—"_

_"Certainly," said the woman, still watching Kaiba._

_"You'll find us later?" Otogi said, and Kaiba gave the slightest of nods. "Malik, kiddo, I'll see you around. Good luck with—with everything."_

_"'Bye," said the blonde boy quietly._

_"Come on, Katsuya-_kun_," said Otogi, his pronunciation a bit warped. "Let's not impose on Lady Isis any longer."_

_"But," said Jou, struggling to turn around as Otogi steered him down the steps, down the sidewalk. It was pitch-black outside; the nearest streetlamp was a block away, but Otogi navigated as though he could see perfectly. "But Kaiba—"_

_"_Bin sharmuta!_" Malik screamed after them, when they were almost across the street, his voice cracking. "Dammit! You'd better not come back again!"_

_"Heh," said Otogi, very softly. "That kid."_

The hotel they'd found had been at the opening of a long alleyway, run by a pretty seedy-looking guy. Otogi had paid up front, making a big show of haggling the price down and even then pretending to have trouble finding enough money. The entire room was moth-eaten, pretty much, with floorboards that creaked _very _ominously and mattresses armed with protruding springs that looked sharp and were probably dangerous. They'd taken so many turns around the city that Jou was wondering how Kaiba would ever find them. . .

Someone scurried across the street, and Jou leaned closer, squinting, but it was only the seedy-looking guy, carrying a dirty tin pail as he hurried into the alley.

"Poor puppy," said Otogi sweetly. "Waiting for his master."

"Otogi," said Jou, suddenly realizing he had reached something of a breaking point. The Eureka moment. "Otogi, if I. . ." He stopped, swallowed, tried again. "Otogi."

"Whoa, hey," laughed Otogi, as Jou's hands moved to the front of his shirt and kind of stayed there, plucking at the buttons. His hand closed loosely around Jou's wrist. "Kid. What are you doing?"

"I'm blonde, right?" said Jou desperately. "You—you like blondes, right?"

"We-ell, I may have a soft spot," said Otogi, raising an eyebrow and looking like he knew exactly what Jou was up to; a smug smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He tilted his hips and Jou, following the movement with his eyes, glanced up and saw that snide smile turn knowing; he flushed. "What's it to you?"

"You're dead—you're cold like him—you can—you can have my blood, if you want—" Jou's mouth was dry. _Shit, don't make me say it!_

"Come out of denial, have you?" said the vampire, like silk. "What am I, your test run?"

"For fuck's sake," said Jou thickly, but he wasn't going to back down, and then Otogi's cold hands were around his neck, pressing him into the ragged curtains. The vampire's lips brushed like paper against the side of his mouth. Jou _ached_ then; he wanted this a lot—he'd wanted it so much—

"Don't worry," said Otogi, as Jou shivered. "I'll make this _good._"

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

The apartment door had been left ajar; the floor was littered with beer cans. Some soggy ramen had been left on the stove. There were three rooms—two empty, and Ryou slid easily into the third and found Shizuka almost immediately, awake on her futon with her knees drawn up to her chest. Though his footfalls made no sound, she jumped as he entered.

"Who's there?" she whispered, turning her blind eyes toward him. "'Nii-san?"

"No, it's—" Ryou answered immediately and wanted to bite his tongue, but she didn't acknowledge him.

She squinted at the doorway. "Is anyone there?" she said, even more quietly. _She can't hear me, _Ryou realized. _And she can't see—_

He crouched beside her, and she glanced in his direction, right through him. "Jounouchi will come back," he said, looking into her staring eyes. "He'll definitely come back."

The city had been pre-dawn and gray, cool and wet when Ryou came out onto the sidewalk. The apartment complex had been silent as he'd made his way down; the streets were mostly empty.

"Goodbye," he'd told his father. "I won't see you again, I don't think."

Yaten had looked at him a long moment. "I'm sorry," the man had said. "Goodbye, Ryou."

_Now what, Ryou?_ he thought to himself, sitting on the sidewalk outside Jounouchi's apartment, watching as dawn spread itself across the buildings. There had been a few cars and a few people; they hadn't spared him a second glance, if they'd even been able to see him. He was vanishing—now that the sun had appeared, he'd become like mist. He wondered what would happen if he disappeared entirely—

_Like Amane._

He had killed her, and even though they'd been two parts of a whole once, for thirteen years she'd been a conscious being, aware of her existence, afraid to die—was she inside him, even now? Then why couldn't he use her magic? _You're not human. This world where you've lived for sixteen years—it's not your world; it never was. Whatever you are—_

"Oi. What's this?"

He looked up, startled, and found them grinning down at him—three men and a woman, carrying briefcases and dressed like normal commuters. But the woman was horned and of the men was pulling something like a policeman's nightstick out from his sleeve. _Yabai,_ thought Ryou—_this is bad._

"Fading fast, aren't you?" said the man with a green tie. "Been away from your master long, little soul?"

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

They stared at each other a moment, their past argument not entirely forgotten. Shaadi looked savage. His turban had come undone completely and was coiled around his shoulders. He was breathing hard and tensed to spring, but since blocking Marikku's strike he hadn't made to attack.

"Shaadi, what's happened?" she asked.

"Shaitan, Isis!" he exclaimed. "Haven't I taught you anything at all? The wards on the eastern wall are all but collapsing in on themselves; it was easy to unravel them!"

"We had a breach earlier!" Isis snapped. She hadn't had time to weave better ones, and Shaadi could go to haven if he'd dragged two most wanted fugitives in the entire underworld into her living room just to demonstrate that point!

"A breach?" said Marikku. "Isis?"

"Later," she barked. "It is four o'clock in the morning, Shaadi, and you've broken all my wards and brought the Crown Prince _and a blessed angel _into my study! I deserve an explanation."

"It can wait. Take these two to another room," said Shaadi hoarsely, pushing both at Marikku, who grabbed each by a shoulder. They both looked a little blank, but it was late, and they must have been expecting to be killed. "Keep them there; don't let them out of your sight and don't hurt them."

"Stay here, Marikku," Isis ordered, and Shaadi spun to face her.

"Isis!"

"Whatever it is, Shaadi, you can't protect me from it," she snarled. "You'll tell me what's happened. _This instant._"

"You stubborn woman!" said Shaadi. "_Akhenaden is dead._"

_Dead,_ thought Isis, and felt the world spinning away from her for a moment. She let it go, heard only white noise for a moment, saw nothing. _Dead._

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

It had been a long, nightmarish search; she'd come upon Ryou's apartment as it had been described in the files—Bakura, for all his doodles, had researched rather fastidiously—and found the soul's father sitting alone in the flat, ignorant of her presence and for all purposes dead to the world. If Ryou had been here, he was gone already, and she was running out of time.

Bakura had circled _Jounouchi Katsuya_ once or twice before crossing it out with several childish Xs—there had been no map to the boy's house, but if he and Ryou had gone to school together, he must have lived nearby. . .

It had taken her far longer than she'd planned to open a portal into Domino City; guarded by mountains on all sides, the valley city had been especially hard to penetrate. She'd been looking for four hours now, and though the amulets were strong, she didn't think she would be able to continue for much longer—certainly not if she wanted to make a portal back into Dahlia. And nothing—not sunlight, not amulets, not adrenaline—made up for the fact that she'd been running on reserve magic for at least a week. When she could, she'd walked slowly to save her energy.

Mana felt the immense flare as she rounded the block; it wiped out her senses for a fraction of a second, then collapsed on itself, sucking back to a pinpoint. She paused, wondering at it.

_Ryou's ankh,_ she realized, moving into a jog. _He's close—!_

She saw the slavers first—second-rate hunters that hung around the mundane realm, hoping to catch weakened escapees for a meager fee. They were no better than scavengers. One of them lashed out with a short club; silver hair flashed in the sunlight as Ryou leapt back, and she broke into a dead run, her fingers twisting into runes. They meant to overwhelm him and drag him back to be re-auctioned; she couldn't allow that to happen, exhaustion be blessed.

The first rune was for an earthquake on a very small scale; she set the epicenter at the elbow and watched, still sprinting, as the club-wielding slaver screamed and dropped his weapon, his splintered arm coming to hang loosely at his side.

She made the second rune just as she reached them, put the epicenter at the kneecap—defensive spells manipulated into attacks, and all little; she couldn't afford to make larger ones. By now they'd all noticed her—from her cloak, they probably judged her a rival slaver. Two of them stood to face her; they weren't about to abandon their quarry yet.

"Bakura!" Ryou cried. He had seen the patches.

The third rune was for herself, for swiftness; they'd recognized her for a rune-witch and would be going for her fingers. She made the fourth and fifth in rapid succession, drawing on the amulets; these would freeze the blood and the breath. She dipped past the men, who would shake off the paralysis in another heartbeat, and went for the horned woman. There was no time to form a rune; she feinted for the eyes and cast a seal over the lids that meant temporary blindness.

The hood had fallen from her face; Ryou was looking at her now in surprise. Behind them, the slaver whose knee she'd shattered gave a moan of pain.

"Let's go home," she said.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Ryou had thought he was done for, as the first blow came down. The ankh had blasted some kind of protection, blinding them all. Somehow, he thought wildly, it had summoned Bakura—who was coming at his attackers like a whirlwind—Ryou saw the patched cloak and felt his heart leap into his throat. He had called out—and then the hood had tumbled back, Mana's golden hair with it. Disappointment flooded him like acid, choking him.

She was looking at him expectantly, with no small amount of hope. "Let's go home," she said.

_Home, _Ryou thought, as she held her hand out to him. _Home is—not here. _He thought of Jounouchi, still trapped in hell, of Sara, of Malik—of Bakura. Even if he hadn't been meant to live consciously—not matter what he had been before—he was alive now. He could set things right.

"Home," he repeated, and took her hand.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

A/N: Hooray! We made it through another chapter. This one was filled with Stuff, and it got pretty confusing. . .yep, ask me any questions and I'll see if I can answer them. Too bad Isis was distracted. . .it looked like she was finally figuring things out.

I'd also like to mention that I was given FANARTS! From Yutaan. They are absolutely amazing. I will link them in my bio...soonish. In the mean time, you should check out her deviantart account!

Thanks for reading; see you again in April!


	14. the crane wife

FAUST  
yuugiou fanfiction  
ryuujitsu & co.  
chapter fourteen: the crane wife

Disclaimer: Saying we own Yuugiou is like saying all ninjas wear subtle orange suits. You can believe it if you want, but we know better.

A/N: Bit later this time. May means AP exams, piano competitions, and other chaos, so Faust15 may be late. But we'll see. This chapter should be interesting. And long.

ITFTC:

"small, naked children"

- maggie h.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

"You stubborn woman!" said Shaadi. "_Akhenaden is dead._"

She felt the blood draining from her face and knew from the sudden concern in Shaadi's eyes that she'd gone white to the lips. The Crown Prince stirred at that, some of the emptiness slipping from his face to be replaced by panic. "Akhenaden?" he said. "Akhenaden is dead?"

"Marikku," Isis said tersely. "We'll talk later. Take them and go."

He went, pulling prince and angel with him. Isis whirled on Shaadi. "Dead?" she demanded. "How? When?"

"Assassins, it looks like," said Shaadi. "He was found by his servants around six this evening, magical burns, puncture wounds. The Council is in disarray. He was a monarchist, you know," Shaadi added dully. "A true believer in Shaitan."

She remembered Akhenaden—he'd served two Shaitans and spent many weeknights dining at the Ishtal stronghold in Uster. He had had reservations about the cross-world war but had supported it nonetheless, and no doubt he'd been a friend for the prince in a very friendless court—

"He broke with us at the last meeting," Shaadi admitted. "Said we'd lost our minds, trying to run the underworld without a regent. He told us we might as well hand the reins of government over to Pegasus and his bunch. We thought he meant to separate and create his own faction. He had a point, though. We've become far too divided to reign effectively. He put his finger directly on the fault lines, touched one nerve too many, perhaps." Shaadi sighed heavily. "And someone's killed him—the worst thing that could have happened. We're running about pointing fingers at one another. Old disagreements are rising. The divisions are becoming more apparent. It's nightmarish. It's to the point where—you may accuse me of paranoia, Isis, but I'm beginning to think we have an angelic sympathizer or even an angelic citizen disguised among us, creating these rifts. . ."

"That, Shaadi," said Isis, quite severely despite her trembling lips, "is ludicrous. The angelic government is not faring much better than ours at present. We decimated their population in the last war. They've far more pressing problems to deal with within their own lands."

Shaadi stepped swiftly toward her, blotting out the candlelight and looming black in her vision. "Isis, I haven't told you this," he said quietly. "That angel is not simply the Crown Prince's consort. He's high-ranking—not direct royalty by any means, but royal enough in blood that the angelics are playing up his disappearance. It's a kidnapping, they say, and they're pouring their legions into the underworld. That's a pretense. They want war. They want to avenge the losses they suffered in the previous war, take back the mundane territories we gained."

Isis felt the wall at her back. She wanted badly to sag against it, but she was an Ishtal and it would not do. "But they couldn't possibly sustain—"

"Can't they?" said Shaadi grimly. "We don't give them enough credit for their recovery. And we're in shambles; it's the perfect time to strike. Maybe some of our own have decided to jump ship."

"And you?" said Isis. "Have you left the Council?"

She heard the rustle of his robes as he turned to look at her, startled. "Why do you ask that?" he said.

"Why else would you come here but to seek sanctuary?" said Isis, frowning at him. _Blessit, Gozaburo is dead. _"It doesn't follow." _Akhenaden is. . ._

"Isis—" He sounded frustrated now. "Akhenaden was in your father's circle. I thought there might be assassins coming for you, or your brother!"

A pause.

"He's really dead," Isis muttered. "I can't believe it."

"We'll have to watch our backs from now on," said Shaadi. "I suppose I will have to go into hiding. I killed some of my own demons—the Council's demons!—an hour ago, when I rushed so valiantly to the Crown Prince's defense. Those that got away won't forget my face so easily."

She watched the sliver of light that followed the line of his shoulder. "Even after a thousand years, you're still an idealist, Shaadi. Of course your Council would try to have him killed."

"Surely you don't think you're talking to an innocent," said Shaadi, almost desperately. "I've authorized many of those attempts and signed off on the rest. I've sent demons after the boy before. I wanted him dead."

"But you protect him now?" said Isis, disbelievingly. "You've dragged him to my brother's castle alive and kicking and I expect you mean to shelter him."

"This latest attempt worries me," Shaadi said. He moved yet closer and the candle came into view again beyond him, guttering. "I was not told of it, but those were assassins in Council pay. 'Lord Shaadi,' Gerrick said. And I killed him. A spell to the head, like this." His robes rustled again; his silhouette pressed a palm to its temple. Then he said, "He's just a boy, Isis. Desperate to get away, plainly infatuated, dreaming on and on. He doesn't care to hear what his father has done. These are not his people, he thinks."

"And I suppose you mean to ask me to go with you," Isis murmured, "when you go into hiding."

He gripped her hand. She could feel the magic pulsing under the clammy skin like a second heartbeat, stumbling and erratic. "Isis," he said.

She met his eyes in the darkness. "No, Shaadi," she said. "I won't abandon my brother."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Marikku sat with his back to the wall, watching. The Crown Prince was perched quietly in the opposite corner, the angel huddled beside him. He was dark and sullen and beautiful in a way Bakura was not—Bakura, at the moment, was raw and wild, dangerously unsteady. _We went to war for this,_ Marikku thought, looking at the fine, jeweled earlobes and that dull-eyed gaze.

Isis and Shaadi had not begun screaming at each other immediately; in fact, there had been very little yelling. That was heartening. They were talking now, murmuring somewhere behind the wall.

Marikku remembered Akhenaden, dimly. A guest of honor on several occasions. . ._should pay attention to what the guests say at the dinner table_. . ._don't entertain for frivolous reasons._ His father's friend, probably. He let his fingers twitch; a spark escaped his hands.

At that sudden brightness, the angel shifted; the Crown Prince threw Marikku a wavering glare. Marikku raised an eyebrow, and the boy looked away again.

_"Marikku! What are the three forbiddens?"_

_Break haven—that's Falling, and raise hades—that's raising the dead, summoning things. Humans can do it without any dire consequences. Well. They may get torn to shreds by whatever they call forth, but there aren't any repercussions as there are here. And the third is something vague and all-encompassing, and it involves Them. Breaking any agreement with Them._

_But the punishment—Isis was thinking about the punishment. She'd realized something just then. Blessit, why can't I remember the punishment!_

The door opened with a creak. It was dark in the room beyond; the candle had gone out. Isis stood with her hand at the knob, and Marikku sensed Shaadi standing somewhere beyond her. She came into the light swiftly, her skirts sweeping about her ankles and stirring the heavy air. The Crown Prince looked up.

"Atemuyami," said Isis. The baubles in her hair tinkled and shook.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

He was young, though not as young as some of the pups who came begging to the door—little more than children were those. This one was a bit different—ragged, raw; he looked starved. Mahaado had him brought to the tower and set at the table among all his telescopes and maps; he had taken his cloak between his fingers as Mahaado watched him and sat fiddling with the clasp, staring dully at the table.

"You're hungry," said Mahaado.

"Yes," he said, raising his head. His hair was cropped short; it was wild and white, silver when the light struck it. His face was hollow, the mouth pinched.

Mahaado called for some food; whatever was left in the ovens, he told Berthe. He began clearing his instruments from the table's surface. It was cold in the tower; Mahaado had opened all the windows earlier and forgotten to close them, and the wind was howling through them like a frost, chilling the room—but the young man had his cloak wrapped snug around his body. In the flickering light the tips of his ears and his nose were turning red from the cold and the skin around the bones of his face had gone white. Mahaado, for his part, pulled his robes more tightly to him and belted them before sitting.

"I have a letter of introduction," said the young man, reaching into the depths of his cloak. It was too dark the read the crest on the wax seal, but Mahaado had only to feel the texture of the parchment to recognize the magic that had made it—Mutou Sugoroku.

"You come highly recommended, then," said Mahaado, tucking the letter, unopened, into a pocket.

"I don't ask you to take me on," the young man said unexpectedly. He pulled his right hand from under the table, and Mahaado hissed in surprise at the sight of it.

The hand had been broken—broken in several places and left unhealed, or worse, deliberately healed incorrectly; he saw that at once. The muscles had warped; veins writhed around fingers that had been healed out of joint. The third finger appeared to have been completely shattered and only half pieced back together; the fourth finger was bent backward and the index twisted to the side. Across the back of the hand, the bones had broken skin; rot was setting in.

"Shaitan," Mahaado murmured. "What happened?"

"As you see," said the young man, "I've had to improvise my runes in recent months."

"Shaitan," said Mahaado again, taking the withered hand in his own and turning it, examining the various breaks. "But you haven't healed it. . ."

He let his own magic flood the area, envisioned the tendons pulling the muscles back into place, the veins loosening just enough to allow each bone to—

Blackness swam at his vision; reflexively, he released the hand.

"It's cursed," said the young man flatly, tucking the crippled hand under the table again. "I can't heal it." He bared his teeth in a grin keen with hunger. "Family revenge for a bar fight, it seems. I had my back turned. Should have been more careful."

"You've trained under Sugoroku?" said Mahaado, wiping his hands on his robes. His palms felt more than a little boiled.

"For a time, yes," said the young man. He pressed his left palm flat against the table and touched his forehead to it. "Master Mahaado. I will do whatever you ask of me; allow me to stay and heal my hand in return. That is all I ask."

"I suppose your left-handed runes are excellent, in that case," said Mahaado, lips twitching.

"Of course," the young man said, smiling. His dark eyes flashed.

Berthe had been hesitating in the doorway with the trays; at that moment she bustled over and set them down on top of the table, regardless of the books and maps. Mahaado had long grown accustomed to grease spots on his work; his colleagues had too, it seemed.

They ate in silence; it was a late supper and wet, but from the look of it, Mahaado's guest had no qualms about soggy bread. Mahaado watched him eat for another moment, the white head bobbing like a dog's as he bent down for another mouthful. He was unfinished, two parts rough—not a lord's son by any means, or the child of some old sorcerer family. He'd come from the streets, or worse, but Sugoroku had trained him. Maybe he had a buxom sister. . .

"What is your name?" asked Mahaado, reaching for the letter and lifting the seal from it.

"Bekhara," said the young man with another smile, sharp and feral. "It's Bekhara."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Marikku sat cross-legged beneath the window as dawn broke overhead, streaking the sky with red. "It's my castle and my defenses; I have a right to know," he said. "Isis. It can't be so bad."

Isis put a finger, already plucked raw, between her lips and bit. "It isn't. It's nothing important," she said. "I don't want to worry you. . .over something so trivial."

It had been an hour since Shaadi's departure. He'd taken both Crown Prince and angel with him, and gone quietly, what's more, brushing Isis' cheek as he vanished. Under normal circumstances, Isis was certain Marikku would have said something teasing. As it was, he had only watched them gravely and bid Shaadi goodbye—she must have looked a fright, then, far more worried than she'd felt. And now he was pressing her, gently, to speak.

She became aware of her heartbeat again and the fierce, low murmur running like a mantra through her mind: _Gozaburo is dead._

"He threatened you," she heard herself say, washed out and exhausted. _The last of the Ishtal dynasty—he threatened to kill you, all that Father had worked for, and had it not been for Akhenaden—and Akhenaden is dead now, too._

"Isis," said Marikku again, very softly. "Who?"

"I'm sorry," she said, rubbing at her eyes. "I'm so tired. The—" she almost choked on it, forced it out "—the Kaiba heir was here today." And Marikku knew nothing of Gozaburo Kaiba, who had come so close to taking all. She had to laugh at herself, a little—she'd only had to think of him once before he returned to terrorize her memory. . .Bluebeard, the wife-devourer. And one of his sons had come forward. . .

"The Kaiba heir?" said Marikku, who knew only a little about Gozaburo but a good deal about the waver in Isis' voice.

"Yes," she said. She would stay away from the subject of Malik's vampire, if she could. "It was a bit of an impromptu visit. He'd overexerted himself, magically, and I told the v—the human slave, who brought him to the doorstep—that he might rest here until he regained consciousness." She gave a dry little laugh, remembering it. "No sooner had he come around than he tried to ask for an alliance with our family, in true Kaiba fashion. I declined and sent him on his way. That's all."

"It's not all, Isis, or you wouldn't be upset," said Marikku. "I've seen you weather worse."

She tried to smile. "It's not as though we've had an uneventful evening, brother—we've had an angel in our living room, after all! Shaitan! Madar probably rolled over in her grave tonight."

Marikku frowned at her. "Isis."

She took her time breathing in. It felt as though something had wrapped around her ribs and was squeezing them now, trying to choke her. "Father's sickness was brought on by a spell, or a combination of spells," she said. "Even now, I'm not sure how he was hit. It was during a battle in the early morning—the last battle the Ishtals would fight, Father said, but of course that was before the war. It was like a cancer and something incurable—it killed him slowly. You didn't know. He didn't want you to know."

"Isis. . ."

She felt like she was strangling. "Gozaburo tried to overthrow Shaitan, yes, when we were younger. We meant to stay neutral. He made a threat on your life, Marikku—I'll never forget it." _Had it not been for Akhenaden—_

They rarely embraced, but his arms were around her now, his face in her hair. "He's dead, Isis," said Marikku, in a low and urgent whisper. "He's dead. He won't come back to harm either of us—"

"I know," she said. "I just—the Kaiba heir—they're very alike. Marikku!" She twisted around and grabbed him by the shoulders. His eyes were red-rimmed and foggy; he stared at her and said nothing. "Marikku!" she said again, in a hiss. "You're the last of the line. I won't let them have you!"

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

It was three in the morning and Jounouchi was not asleep. He leaned over the windowsill and pushed his forehead against the dirty glass, peering down. Otogi lay among the springs; overnight, several of the metal coils had jumped free of the mattress, and one of them had managed to corkscrew through the vampire's forearm. It had probably been painful, but Otogi hadn't done anything about it yet. The sheets were tangled in an interesting whorl around his middle. He was naked and gray from the waist down, and they'd managed to shatter the lamp, somehow.

"I like you, I do," said Otogi lazily. He yawned a bit. "Soft spot for blondes, definitely. That's it; I'm adopting you."

"Was it good for you, too?" muttered Jou. He felt shivery, more than a little sick. Hysterics at any minute. The streets were still empty, ash-gray and lightening, like Otogi's skin.

There was a dry thunk and a chorus of squeaks, and Otogi's hand, hole in arm and everything, came up around Jounouchi's neck to press at the jugular. The bites had closed up already and the spring-inflicted wound had become something more like a pinprick. Jou breathed in, then out.

"He'll be back soon," said Otogi in his ear. The breath was hot but not moist as breath should be. "He's making deals with Lady Isis."

"How come you know all of this?" Jou demanded. He squashed his face against the glass and closed his eyes.

"I met Malik above-ground," said Otogi suddenly. The fingers at Jou's throat began to pinch and rub. "I followed his sister home, you see. He was sneaking out at night. You're not really like him. You have that beaten puppy look. You and Kaiba both, really."

"Kaiba?" Jou snorted. "Ow—_fuck,_ Otogi."

"Mm," said Otogi, sliding his hand around to the back of Jou's neck. "Sorry, kid."

Otogi went for the pants lying on the floor and pulled Jou with him. They kissed, kind of sloppily, and it was dry and weird but not too bad, considering what they'd already done. Which had been pretty good. Jou didn't care either way. It took his mind off Kaiba.

"Yeah, I like you," said Otogi.

"You like him too," said Jou. He hadn't meant to sound accusing but that was how it'd come out: two parts irritation, one part whine, more groggy than anything. "You like Kaiba."

"Yeah," said Otogi ruefully.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

_Light seemed to pool in the sidewalk beneath them; the surface wavered and rippled under their feet, glowing clear for a moment. There was a forest just beyond his toes, and Ryou, staring in fascination, caught a glimpse of red sunlight coming through the treetops. In another heartbeat, the image was gone. The window rippled again and became concrete._

_"Oh, blessit," muttered Mana. She kicked half-heartedly at the curb, then swayed. Ryou saw that she'd gone deathly pale; he reached out and caught her by the elbow as she staggered. He noticed with a thrill that his fingers didn't sink in at all when he touched her._

_"What's wrong?" he said. "Were you hurt—earlier?" It hadn't looked like his attackers had done Mana any harm, but how was he to know? It would be just like her to try to cover it up, he thought, somewhat sourly._

_"No, it's—" She shook off his hand. "The mountains—my magic's at its limit, and we're in a valley. . ."_

Mountains to hold back the magic. . .

_Ryou squatted, poking at the sidewalk. "What should we do?" he asked. "Domino is a valley city."_

The elderly couple sitting across the aisle looked up in alarm as Mana let out a bright trill of laughter. It was the fifth time they'd glanced up in fifteen minutes; not only was Mana dressed in something like Harajuku street fashion—personally, Ryou thought it was a bit subdued to be street fashion, especially from Harajuku—but she was also apparently talking to herself, and quite animatedly at that. It would be another thirty minutes until they reached the station in the next town, far beyond the mountains.

"So I'm not disappearing?" said Ryou, blinking and feeling stupid.

Mana shook her head. "Don't be silly," she said, still giggling a little. "It's an effect of the sunlight, that's all. You couldn't be further from disappearing. Those hunters saw you, didn't they?"

"Well, yes," said Ryou feebly, "but they were demons. . ."

"Anyway," said Mana cheerily, "I'm glad you managed to get away from your kidnappers. I'm not sure I would have been able to fight off a vampire."

"Oh," said Ryou, feeling a twinge in his gut. "That was lucky, wasn't it?"

"More than," Mana agreed. She looked out the window for a moment and then closed her eyes, exhaling. Her eyelashes glimmered faintly in the light. "A valley city! You humans deserve more credit than we give you," she said, drowsing. "It's only the port city architects who are idiots. The oceans are full of holes. . ."

"I went to see my father, Mana," said Ryou, slowly. "He said my mother wasn't human. I'm not human, either."

She opened an eye. "Well, I'm not too surprised. I didn't expect you to be fully human, anyway, with those fey eyes of yours," she said, smiling. "What are you, a third faerie, two parts elf? Descended from a river nymph?"

Ryou grimaced. "I'm a magical construct," he said. "By all rights I shouldn't even be cognizant."

Her eyes widened. She sat up with a jerk—the elderly couple jumped again—and stared at him. "But that's impossible," she said. "How?"

"I don't know," said Ryou. He looked past her shoulder and into the greenery beyond. Domino's clock tower was visible from the mountaintop; he remembered that from a school trip three years ago. His father had been reluctant to let him go, and Ryou had indeed run into all manner of sprites and foxes, but he'd come back in one piece and had managed to lift an enchantment that had been put on a fellow classmate. It was hard to stop thinking of them as his parents, these people who'd raised him like a son and thought he was a monster.

"I don't know," said Ryou again. _But I'll find out._

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Yami remembered very little of his mother. When he closed his eyes he could see the straps of her sandals and feel once again the dry powdery press of her arms. He'd been spirited from the court at birth and placed in the care of a tutor until he'd proved to his father that he was old enough to return to court. She had been very beautiful, Akhenaden had told him, but she had withered quickly. And she had Fallen—the robust survived it; Yami's mother, for whatever reason, had not.

He hadn't known her, but he'd wept when he was told—Akhenaden had told him. That glittering lord of hell that was his father had wept too, had been disconsolate—foolishly, said some—for weeks. But Shaitan had fought a war for this angel, a war that had slaughtered hundreds of thousands. If he had done that, he must have loved her fiercely.

Like father, like son, Shaadi had said.

The door opened and Shaadi entered, bearing a set of fresh robes.

"Yuugi," croaked Yami at once, scrambling to his feet. "Where's Yuugi?" Shaadi said nothing and Yami found himself floundering for a moment in cold dread. "You didn't—Shaadi, you didn't," he said. _Gave him back to his own. . . _"You didn't—where is he!"

Shaadi's mouth twisted in annoyance, but then Yuugi was coming through the door and Yami had him at once pressed close; he didn't care that Shaadi was watching with disdainful eyes; Shaadi hadn't taken him back to the angels, hadn't killed him—_Yuugi!_

He pulled back with Yuugi's arms still around his neck and his hands on Yuugi's waist and said, quite hoarsely, "Thank you."

Shaadi had removed his turban and the coal lamps gleamed bright and oily on the black of his hair. Yami had never seen Shaadi without his turban—only immaculately dressed, and in freshly pressed linens at that, bowing to his father. It occurred to him then, quite suddenly, that Shaadi was _young_—young and tired, with circles under his eyes. Shaadi had to be a century old at least, that he knew, too. It was an illusion—

"I won't keep you in a cage," said Shaadi. "This room and the one beyond it are yours. But you are not to leave the castle, my liege. I cannot guarantee your safety beyond these walls. You know by now that there are angelics and assassins on the hunt for you."

"You can't keep us here," said Yami, realizing with a sinking feeling that Shaadi _could,_ that Shaadi _would_, and that Shaadi was, in fact, going to do exactly that.

"And why not?" said Shaadi coolly.

"Shaadi! I don't—" he faltered. "I don't want the throne. Let us go. I won't come back to make trouble. I—we—just want to reach the mundane realm," and Yuugi murmured assent.

"It's far safer here," returned Shaadi. "As far as the Council knows, you've been killed and burned and your ashes buried, though you managed to take Gerrick and Amel with you during the fight. That's the version the rest of my men will sing to, at any rate. So I would suggest you remain here, my prince."

He turned to go and Yami lunged to his feet, grabbing at his robes and wrenching him around with a strength he hadn't known he'd had. "Wait—my mother," he panted. "Tell me about my mother."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

It was her sixth visit to court and would have been like any other had she not come alone. Isis was sure that anyone within ten meters could hear her knees knocking. She thought of Marikku, who had begged to go and been refused, and loosened her hands when she found them tightly clenched. She was not here on official business yet, though she might be in the months to come—a representative of Ishtal claims. Akhenaden had promised her father to introduce her to the greater nobles of the court, a finish to her training. And she'd spent weeks already, studying their histories. . .

She'd seen and heard of the demon bearing down on her before—Kaiba Gozaburo, no real lord but as good as one; he owned a good portion of the southern lands and had Shaitan's treasury in his pocket. He had never approached her before, but then, she supposed, she had always been tightly escorted—if not by her father, then by Shaadi.

Shaadi was here today, to keep an eye on her—she could see him lurking just beyond, leaning against a pillar and speaking to another courtier, watching her all the while. While Akhenaden was near, though, Shaadi would keep his distance. It would be unseemly for all three demons to gather around her.

"I hear you aim to be some sort of mundane scholar," said Gozaburo, catching her little hand in his and shaking it.

Isis stared up at him, at the incredible girth of his shoulders. The hand that held hers was huge, a bear's paw; coarse blue-black hair emerged from under his cuffs and covered his leathery skin to the knuckles. She _had _dabbled in mundane history before, and this giant of a demon reminded her of Bluebeard. . .the wife-devourer. His graying mustache and beard were immaculately trimmed, but heavy veins and corded muscle bulged at the temples and just below the jaw. He was aging but formidable.

"Somewhat," she said quietly, pleased to find her voice was not shaking. "Mister Kaiba."

He gave a low chuckle. "Well met, Lady Ishtal. So your father has brought you to court at last, has he?"

Akhenaden had been watching beside her. The flurry of his robes alerted her to his departure; he was striding toward the gilded arch that marked Shaitan's court, his long hair flowing out behind him. The sentries on either side inclined their heads toward their casting arms as he passed. Whatever security she'd felt with Shaitan's right-hand man standing behind her quickly fled. Bluebeard had yet to release her arm; she felt her heartbeat thundering into existence in her ears. This was Gozaburo Kaiba—no financial minister, but close enough to it. . .!

Shaadi, who had been hovering nearby, and who must have sensed her discomfort, moved swiftly to take Akhenaden's place.

"Lady Isis," he said, bowing to her—a shallow dip—and then to Gozaburo, far deeper, with a flutter of the left hand that could be mistaken for elegance from a distance but, directly before her eyes, was all nerves, a tremor. His voice, nevertheless, was smooth and low as he continued. "Lord Kaiba. Your presence is required in the stateroom."

Isis watched Shaadi's hair, cut to the chin, slide across his jaw as he tilted his head ever so slightly to the right.

Gozaburo smiled at her, his lips twitching into a grimace that didn't quite reach the edges of his mouth, let alone his eyes, and released her hand. Isis let it come _slowly_ back to her side, where she tucked it between the folds of her dress. When he'd gone, she would be able to rub it clean.

She lowered her eyes and ducked her chin: a modest bow, perhaps not the most respectful, but all she could manage. Her neck felt stiff and unwieldy; her knees had locked.

Gozaburo nodded in return. His gaze lingered on her a moment longer; Isis did not lift her eyes. She kept them trained on the polished brown leather of his shoes as he pivoted smartly and began making his way toward the arch. Shaadi's feet approached her; they were sandaled, informal considering the circumstances.

"Gozaburo Kaiba," commented Shaadi, as Gozaburo disappeared beyond the arch. "No heirs at present. His magic is not spectacular, but he makes up for it with sheer force of personality. As you've noticed."

"Mm," said Isis, wiping vigorously at her hands. "Yes. He'll be financial minister, I hear."

Shaadi smiled. "He'll never be appointed; there's no need. Minister Charon is as good as a Kaiba puppet. Well done, Isis; you've survived the third most powerful demon at court. And what do you think of it so far?"

"I've got a crick in my neck," said Isis, straightening her spine with several pops and cracks and taking a deep breath as she did. "From all the bowing. This Kaiba will be surprised, do you think, that I've come alone?"

"Never," said Shaadi blithely. "He controls half the court, the court walls, and all the ears they contain, after all."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Malik was not asleep when Marikku came to bed. He was sitting with a lamp beside him and a pile of pillows behind him, biting his hands to keep from falling asleep. Marikku didn't ask; he caught Malik by the back of the head, tugged Malik's knuckles gently out of his mouth, and kissed him, nearly upsetting the lamp in the process.

Malik pulled away almost immediately and buried his head in his shoulder. "Marikku," he said, voice muffled, "I have—I have to tell you something."

He raised the boy's head and kissed him again and said, "Can it wait till I've slept a bit? I have a headache. Migraine, almost. And I missed you. Did you miss me, chit?"

"Marikku," said Malik desperately, twisting away from him a second time. "Isis—Isis probably told you. You're probably angry. And that's okay. I'd expect you'd be angry. Fuck. It's just. It's been. . .it's. . .I love you, okay? I love you so fucking much."

"She didn't tell me," said Marikku slowly. The vague uneasiness in his chest had begun to expand rapidly.

"Oh, Allah," said Malik and winced. "She didn't tell you. Um. Just listen, okay? Just hear me out. Don't say anything until I'm done, okay?" He took a deep breath. "You've never asked me what I sold my soul for—I did it to resurrect someone, a vampire. He came today—"

"Malik," interrupted Marikku with considerable suspicion. "You aren't going to leave me, are you? Because if you're going to leave me—"

"What?" said Malik, looking scandalized. "No! Fuck, of course not!"

"Oh," said Marikku, somewhat mollified. "Go on, then."

Malik glared a bit before continuing. "I haven't been fucking him on the side, asshole! I've had no idea where he's been—what he's been doing since I had him brought back—

"It was when I was growing up, in Egypt," he said. "This was right when Dad started losing it—really losing it. Summoning day and night. He was a little crazier than usual that day—it was just after noon; I ran and hid in the lower catacombs. . .Allah—_ow_—it was cold there, and damp. The vampire was there, behind one of the crumbling arches. . ." He was looking down at Marikku's collar bone, staring but not seeing. "He said, 'Aren't you afraid?' I didn't know what he was then. I mean, I'd been living underground. . ."

_He uncoiled from the ground with the echoes of screams still ringing in his ears—not his screams. It was dark and the air was thick with blood; the smell of it was driving him mad. The man before him was half dressed, hair matted, staring up at him with crazed eyes. The skin sagged; it was a skull leering up at him, not a human, with cuts across the face and arms, bruises like he'd been in a fight. _

_"Demon," the man rasped, howling and smiling all at once. "Demon; I called you up!" And Marikku was still drunken, blood and mead on his tongue; he pushed himself up, panting like an animal. "Demon," said the man again, in a wail, and Marikku slew him, drew a sun in his palm and pressed it to the man's forehead, knocking his head back with the blast. _

"He said he was from Russia," said Malik. "I don't think he really remembered where he was from and he didn't bother trying—he said he was from Byzantium, too, and Persia, that he'd been traveling with the armies. I liked him—I liked him a lot. He took me out at night to see the city, taught me how to fight, how to swear in all kinds of languages—I saw him feed a few times, and I was letting him feed off me, too, toward the end—"

_Blood spattered. The man crumpled into a heap; a knife fell from his hands. Marikku stood over him for a moment and noticed things slowly—the cold stone of the floor, the blood dripping down his hand and chest—and the weird, muffled hiccup that came from his left—_

_There was much more blood on the floor than he'd thought, but most of it was coming from the other body, not quite dead—_

Malik took a long shivery breath. "It—it wasn't anything. Well, it was something. It was the _first_. I liked him so much. He told me he was going to take me away, all that shit. And one day he didn't come and I went down to the catacombs and he was with Fatima, fucking her, _and he was killing her_—drinking her blood as he did it; and she'd gone so quiet. . ."

He shuddered, picking at his hands. "I. . .it was ruins, after all—wood beams lying around. . .and I knew. . .after he told me what he was, I'd gone through Dad's scrolls and found some foreign books. . .I put the stake through his shoulder, first—I didn't want to kill him, just stop him. But it didn't stop him, and Fatima was almost gone, _fuck_—the stake went in so easily, right through the ribs like he'd taught me, like he was made of sand—! He came out of whatever it was, the bloodlust, stared at me like he'd never seen me before. . ."

_It was a boy spread flat on his stomach, naked, head turned to the side. His back had been torn apart by something wild, Marikku thought, and then he stepped closer and squinted and saw that, no, it had been done with something sharp but not claws; symbols methodically carved into the flesh, still bleeding. Hieroglyphs for summoning—this was the sacrifice that had yanked him out of the bar. He took another step forward until he was standing over the boy and gazed down at the mess._

"So I killed him. He went to ash just like that—" Malik tried to snap and managed a faint sound "—between my fingers. And Fatima was sick; Dad snapped entirely. Then there was nothing—nothing to think about, after that. I used to. . .look forward to going out at night.

"He came today to take me away," and Marikku jerked at that, felt his heart jumping to life inside his ribcage. "He'd been looking for me since—since he found out what I'd done. No harsh feelings, he said. He wanted to know why."

_There were slashes on the legs and buttocks, too, one high up on the shoulder, like the boy had been fighting to get away. The hair was golden but rapidly reddening; blood pooled under the face._

_Then the eyelids flickered, and the eyes Marikku had thought dulled by death rolled toward him. The mouth moved, too, and Marikku, sobering quickly as demons were prone to do, squatted down._

_"Do it. . ." It was barely a breath. "Oh please."_

_Marikku looked at the dry and creased mouth, contorted with pain, at the lashes stiff with blood. It was a pretty face._

"He looked at me for a long time, and then he said it was pretty easy to see that I was. . .that I'm happy, here. And he said that he had someone else to look after now, kind of in the same way, and that he was glad he'd gotten to see me.

"I'm here," Malik finished, quiet and desperate. "Marikku—I wouldn't have left you. I'm _here._"

_He took the boy's face in his hands and pulled him up; the boy screamed as he was moved, but quieted quickly. The thin chest rose and fell with erratic breaths; Marikku could feel the fear rolling off him in waves. The boy's face was growing paler and paler with the minutes; he had probably gone into shock by the time Marikku raised him again, just a little higher, to kiss him._

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Mana was almost dozing when Ryou finally worked up the courage to ask, "Was it—did Bakura send you to find me?" He thought with a shudder of Bakura's eyes, dark with wrath, the night he had gone to Jounouchi. If Mana had come under Bakura's orders, maybe Bakura was not as angry any more—

—or maybe Bakura wanted him dragged back to be humiliated, branded, and locked up, this time for good. He shuddered again, then frowned. _He overreacted, anyway; if he'd only _listened _he might have realized I wasn't trying to escape—_

Mana looked distant for a moment. "No," she said at last. "He's been preoccupied. I came of my own volition."

_Bakura, _thought Ryou, quailing a little, _is probably still furious._

They were minutes from their destination. Ryou gazed past Mana's shoulder at the trees that were rapidly thinning into homes and roads. "He'll be happy to see you, I'm sure," said Mana, sounding as though she didn't quite believe it herself.

_I'm going back with her, and she isn't dragging me down to hell. He should take that as proof I haven't been running—I just wanted answers. And answers I have. . .some answers._

_I still don't know what Mum _was_, and I don't know what organization she belonged to, and what she was doing with me in the first place—and where I come from! Why haven't I got any magic if I'm bloody _made _from magic? And how can I trust what Dad told me? Mum kept him in the dark once; maybe she did it again and lied to him to protect another secret—_

_You're lying. _Bakura's voice echoed in his brain. _He might be a classmate, but he is also Jounouchi _fucking_ Katsuya, and his name is on your contract._ _He's come back for you because you traded your Shaitan-blessed soul for him—and tell me, Ryou, would you trade your soul for "just a classmate"? _

_But that's what I did—that's all I did. Dammit, Bakura! Because even if Jounouchi-_kun_'s father is a drunk and his mother has left them, he has both parents still, both parents and a sister—a sister he'd die for, a sister he sold his soul for! And I wanted that. _Ryou wasn't sure that saying it earlier would have made Bakura any less angry—and he hadn't wanted to say it earlier—_pathetic desire, after all. Jounouchi-_kun_'s parents are a curse to him and his sister is blind—there's nothing perfect about it!_

He felt strange and lightheaded, more than a little shaky. _Because even if the castle is always a mess, and Mana is neurotic and Sara a little frightening, and Bakura—and Bakura is half-mad. . ._

_It's only a coincidence that our surname is Bakura. It—_

"If you sink any deeper into thought," said Mana, "you're going to drown." Ryou realized with a shock that they had left the train, that they were standing on the platform already. The station was nearly empty; most of the travelers who had gotten off with them were already filtering through the turnstiles, and the train was pulling out.

Mana had taken a tiny blue hippopotamus out of her pocket and was holding between the third and fourth fingers of her left hand, palm stretched flat. The other hand was making rapid motions, wrist and fingers swiveling. The amulet shattered; then, as Ryou watched, the ground seemed to open beneath their feet—concrete became glass became empty air, and then they were falling.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Isis sat with her legs curled under her and an oblong silver mirror in her lap, one hand on either side of the wooden frame. She had drawn the curtains over the windows and spelled them a bit to kill whatever light was beyond them. This was her first mirror, one that Shaadi had given her, and the picture had gone out of it long ago. His voice was fuzzy, warping as it issued from the center of the metal sheet.

"He's planning something, Shaadi," she said. "I don't like it."

"It's said that there was no love lost between Gozaburo and his son," said Shaadi, sounding thoughtful. "That one's mother is probably dead; the Kaiba matriarch lives on, but she went mad when her second son was killed. This Kaiba's no true heir, either—it's his brother, the youngest and only legitimate, and that one is most likely dead. He hasn't the support, Isis—whatever he could dream up would be quickly squashed."

"Goza—the rebellion is what I wanted to speak to you about, actually," said Isis, leaning back against the wall. "What happened to the supporters?"

"The ones who weren't killed?" said Shaadi slowly. "There was only a handful left, most of the leaders already dead, and the war was beginning, so we had them put in the army. The Big Five took a few, not all ringleaders; who knows what happened to those."

"I don't suppose you have a list of names," said Isis, just as slowly. "I would like to confirm something."

_The Big Five—they were Gozaburo's men once, his closest advisors, and they turned on him. _She remembered them from the last battle—it was the short one, Crump, who'd landed the first hit, coming from the back with a knife formed of magic, then Gansley. They'd arranged it all beforehand; Akhenaden had mastered the deal._ It was power they wanted when they betrayed him, but no one trusts turncoats._

In the end she wasn't sure who had felled Gozaburo—beyond the opening stabs, her memory of the struggle was a blur. He'd been so terrifically powerful. . ._invincible, _immortal—

"It's Council records I'd have to look through," said Shaadi, after a pause. The mirror crackled. "Which I can't do, at the moment. As for those that the Big Five took, it's most likely Leichter who would have those lists. I'm sorry."

_Taken by the Big Five. . .if Bakura had been one of those, they might have done something to him—put a leash on his magic to control him; maybe They aren't involved at all in this. . ._

"I can only give you two names," said Shaadi, "and no real leads. Ibrahim Farouk and Bekhara bin Elna—sentenced by the Council and immediately drafted. Farouk rose to prominence during the war and became a first lieutenant. As for Bekhara. . .he was known in academic circles for his rune work. It's widely believed that he was the berserker who sacrificed himself to destroy the angelic ranks. Farouk went to Deshret at the end of the war and died there some years later from an injury."

"Both dead. . ." murmured Isis. "Were you tracking them?"

"Not personally. Farouk, as an officer, was entered automatically into the records; a pension was sent to him until his death. That much we have on paper. Bekhara's case is somewhat more uncertain, but his magical signature—it was an unusual one, very rare, and had interested us before—vanished at the time of the battle that crushed the angelics. Our deaths will leave residue—the amount depends on the extent of our power—which is then passed on to heirs. If there are no heirs, that residue will fade and eventually disappear altogether. Bekhara's signature lingered on the battlefield for a few weeks more, but it was faint, and within a month it had gone entirely."

"Shaadi," Isis said. "I want those papers—war records, first-hand accounts, everything you have on those two. Especially Bekhara."

"I'll see what I can do," said Shaadi, somewhat doubtfully. "It may take some time. But you, Isis—I'm a bit surprised. The rebellion was long ago and you've never spoken of it until now."

"It's only a feeling I have," Isis replied evenly. "Thank you, Shaadi—I appreciate it."

He chuckled. "There's more to worry about than two demons who have been dead for years. Why so interested?"

"Because Bekhara is not dead," said Isis. "He's living in this city."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Jou was still staring out the window when it happened—a rush of sound in his ears and, then—_'Nii-sama! _wailed the gray-haired kid, hair more purple than gray, really, flying out of the rising dawn like a banshee, coming at him, _right at him_ through the glass—_'Nii-sama!_

"Fuck!" yelled Jou, staggering backward. He rubbed hard at his eyes. "Fuck—that _kid_—"

"You okay?" said Otogi, sibilantly. "Epic flailing, that was."

Jou had his mouth open to shoot something back, something really vicious, but—maybe to spite him—Kaiba entered the room at that moment exactly, and he forgot what he was going to say. He took another step back and Otogi snagged him around the waist and held him.

"Well, Kaiba-boy!" said Otogi jovially. "So nice to see you. So nice of you to drop in, I should say."

Kaiba's new coat was ancient-looking, velvet-y; a deep sort of aquamarine complete with crests at each cuff, it was fastened from hip to neck with elaborate silver pins. His frown was blue-lipped; he radiated frost. The smooth plane of his face was marred only by the faint bruises around his nose and the blood in his hair. He said nothing for a moment, following the length of Otogi's arm as it swooped around Jou's waist and slid to his hips. Jou felt the temperature drop another ten degrees at least, and shivered.

"Vladmir," said Kaiba at length. "The first train leaves at six." His voice was quiet.

"What?" Jou demanded. He stood upright but left Otogi's arm where it was; no use trying to shift it. Cold blasted his face as he rose. "Don't you want to sleep? Or something? It's five in the fucking morning!"

"I'll live. I'm sure you've had plenty of time to—_sleep_, mutt," said Kaiba, deadly-soft, looking only at Otogi.

Otogi grinned wide and shrugged. "Something like that," he said. "You've got blood in your hair," he added. "Kaiba-boy. Wouldn't want to go into a business meeting like that, would you? Partner might not take you seriously. Pegasus, right? I heard he likes his partners immaculately pressed and dressed and a little bit breathy, all double-entendres intended. That's what I hear, anyway."

"Ten minutes," said Kaiba, like ice. "Then we go."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

It was noon when they arrived in the forests surrounding Dahlia and late afternoon by the time they'd gotten to the heart of Dahlia's red light district. The sun was hot overhead but the breeze suggested more wintry things to come; a dampness hung over the fumes and smog. Mana pulled out a small stone scarab this time; as it, too, broken in to pieces, she switched through the wall. Ryou heard a series of creaks and pings as she undid all the bolts, locks, and latches. A moment later, she opened the door and motioned for him to enter.

He hurried in and she locked the door again behind him, sagging against it for a moment.

"Are you sure you're. . .?" he said, trailing off as she brushed past him and went to the winding staircase, putting her hand on an unimaginably grimy banister.

"Master Bakura, I'm back!" she called. "Master Bakura?"

There was no response; Ryou inhaled the heavy, dust-clogged hair and licked his lips nervously. _Closer, _said a voice in his mind. _You aren't close enough._

"He's probably in the study," she said, already moving up the stairs. "I'll get him. Wait here, and stay away from the windows—I couldn't get the shields to extend that far." She climbed further and soon disappeared from view, her footsteps echoing downward as she went. Ryou heard her call again—silence.

He jerked his sleeves down over his hands and slouched against the wall at the foot of the staircase. His body was trembling; a particularly violent shiver shook him every few seconds.

The kitchen, or what little of it he could see, anyway, through the arch, looked neglected, the floor left unswept and unpolished. He felt a pang at that; it must have been impossible for Mana to clean the whole of the castle alone, and she'd mentioned the wards—had Bakura left her to maintain those, too?

There was a chorus of hisses; a smooth, forked tongue licked at his left cheek. He suppressed a jolt of alarm and turned his head as slowly as he could, hardly daring to breathe.

_Get closer—_

Ryou shouted and backpedaled, knocked the back of his head _hard _against the wall, overbalanced, and fell—three orange-scaled snakes lunged at him, filling his vision. Their mouths opened wide, spitting poison—

Bangles clattered as Bakura caught one by the neck and batted the other two away, giving Medusa's flank a sharp slap—for it was Medusa's tails that had attacked him; the great cat yowled in protest and fled, tails seething and coiling and hissing, and then Bakura was all that Ryou could see.

He stood motionless on the third step, his hand on the banister. The bones of his chest were visible under the filmy shirtwaist he wore; his _shenti _was long and green. His hair was a shock of white in the relative darkness; his bared forearms and feet were obscenely pale against the filth of the staircase. His bracelets glittered soundlessly. His mouth was parted, lips yellow and torn. He stared down at Ryou with wide dark eyes, wild and terrible.

_Closer, _shrieked the thing in Ryou's brain. He didn't try to fight it off, though he knew he should—_God, _he wanted—_he wanted—_

He put his hand on the banister and his foot on the first step, and then Bakura snarled and _moved,_ exploding toward him. Ryou barely felt the shock as his head impacted with the wall a second time; his shoulder blades were flat against the stone, then his spine and the backs of his legs, and Bakura was pressing flush against him, chest to chest and hip to hip, breath harsh in Ryou's ear—Ryou was really shaking now, and he wanted Bakura closer than that; he wanted Bakura to push him into the wall and hold him there so tightly that he wouldn't be able to shake anymore—his head hit the wall _again _as Bakura shoved him, spidery hands digging into his shoulders—

And then he was sinking _into_ Bakura, like he'd wanted, _yes, not close enough, close enough soon—_

"No!" screamed Ryou, that part of Ryou that was still thinking, still coherent, and Bakura started and wrenched away. Ryou bent over and vomited blood, and as he heaved he realized he was sobbing, too, in dry, shuddering gasps.

"Boy," hissed Bakura. "Get out of my sight!"

Ryou reached for him with both hands. "Bakura!" he whispered, and the raw _want_ in his voice stunned him—_closer!_

Bakura gave a ragged cry: "Get out of my sight—get out—_go—_"

Magic slammed into him; he fought it. It wrapped like a hand around his throat, choking him and forcing him back. _He'll kill me—he'll kill me—_panic rose in his gut; Ryou struggled past Bakura and ran.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

A/N: Goodness me, what a long chapter.

Sorry, Kat—I couldn't get the special scenery into the reunion. I had notes but I lost them. --;

Sorry about the cliffhanger! The next update should be in late May or early June. I'm curious—any of y'all attending Princeton right now?


	15. kuru eruna

FAUST  
yuugiou fanfiction  
ryuujitsu & co.  
chapter fifteen: kuru eruna

Disclaimer: Saying we own Yuugiou is like saying Honda's hair is long and flowing. And while his hair may have special powers, it is certainly not long and flowing.

A/N: Late yet again (and very late, at that)! I was writing a children's book about Jeffrey Sachs and the Bolivian economy. That's what ate my time, creativity, brains, etc. Anyway, here is Faust15. It is **quite long**. . .that might have slowed it down, too.

Please excuse any typos. I will be editing through the chapter and fixing any glaring mistakes over the next few days.

Hooray; today we've broken the 300-page barrier! Four years ago, Eden Rising was 18 pages away from being finished.

As I begin this chapter, I have only a very vague idea of the conclusion. The finale I had in mind two years ago is looking increasingly shabby in comparison to the build-up that's been happening. . .ah, the negatives of taking three years to write a story. As always, thanks for sticking with it.

ITFTC:

"in _america!_"

--LittleKuriboh as Bandit Keith (It had to be said; I have gone far too long without acknowledging The Abridged Series!)

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

The water at Dahlia's wharf rose to the very rim of the cobblestone roads and was night-black, tranquil but for a velvet ripple here and there. Around the boats—a motley assembly of streamlined metal vessels and unwieldy, makeshift wooden craft that bulged at the sides—it was a deep, heady purple, clear where the sun struck it. Sea-salt was thick in the air and Ryou breathed it in in gulps. All around him the wharf fairly hummed with activity—demons performing veritable acrobat feats from high masts and riggings, bleaching sails, scurrying along planks and decks carrying all manner of items; urchins squalling after travelers for a dezsra or two; merchants plying their wares. There was a feeling of normalcy that Ryou hadn't sensed during his time in the city—wharf customs might have been different before the war, but they had certainly adapted since then and appeared to be thriving.

Avoiding Bakura had been easier than either of them had expected: Ryou had planned to keep the minarets until morning, but Mana had appeared before dusk with the news that Bakura had gone out and likely wouldn't return for some time—until evening of the next day, even—so Ryou was welcome to come down to help her sort out the kitchen at his earliest convenience. . .

_He did so cautiously, keeping close to the walls and looking out for the cats. He stared at the wall where he'd almost killed Bakura with queasiness rising in his belly; bile came quickly to the back of his throat, but still he couldn't look away._

Closer. . .

_He jolted as Mana tapped him on the back with a mop and fought the need to retch as an upsurge of nausea overwhelmed him. "Ah, sorry."_

_"This is where—" said Mana, stretching her right hand out suddenly to tap the stones. "Yes," she said after a pause. "I can feel some kind of residue. It's very faint, though—fading. Are you sure you're fine?" she added, looking at him closely. "You're looking almost green, now."_

_Ryou swallowed hard as he took the mop from her. He knew for some reason that Sara had used it last, could feel the imprint of her small fingers on the handle and something soft and cold—like the underbelly of a lizard he'd held in a grammar school science class. "What about you?" he returned, somewhat defensively. "You were all but on the verge of collapse before. . ."_

_Mana caught herself mid-frown, then reached into her apron pocket and revealed a fistful of assorted amulets. She grinned at him rather sheepishly. "Secret stash, I suppose," she said. "I've had a rest and they're working well._

_"Now," she continued. "You'll scour the tables and the floors and I'll work my way through the pantry. We can have the kitchen sparkling by morning and we'll leave immediately after, on the pretense of buying replacement knobs for the cabinets, or something. If Bakura—" and her keen eyes did not miss the involuntary jerk of Ryou's hands "—happens to come back early, I'll talk about this or that and you can slip out through the dance room. How's that?"_

_"Where are we going?" asked Ryou._

_For a moment she looked distant. "My former master's castle," she said. She walked into the kitchen, calling over her shoulder: "His library is far better than Bakura's, and there are books there that were burned here—when the Big Five came—books that I know Bakura didn't rewrite, whether purposefully or not. No one's bought or rented the place; castle traps are too elaborate and it's been slated for tear-down in a year. It's down by the wharf, and there are always plenty of travelers there, so no one should question us."_

_Ryou followed her, holding the mop over one shoulder. "Thank you," he said uncertainly. "But why are you doing this? Why did you come to find me, in the mundane realm?"_

_It was a long time before she answered. "Bakura's ill," she said at last, and Ryou, filling a bucket in the muck-encrusted sink, felt his heart give a single heavy beat, one that seemed to knock him back several paces. "A few days ago he was absolutely raving, and all he could do was ask for you. I imagine there's a connection. He wouldn't say it aloud, but he's fascinated with you; not to mention—" her next words made him slump forward in disbelief and slosh his elbows into soapy water "—not to mention that we're just about family now, the three of us. Four, when we get Sara back._

_"Are you all right?" she asked, for Ryou's mouth, entirely unbidden, had released a peculiar sound, a queer little cry._

_He wiped at his nose with slimy fingers. "Yes," he said, feeling an odd prickling behind his eyes as he set the bucket down and stabbed the mop viciously in. Water splashed. _Get Sara back. Family._ The back of his throat stung. "Entirely."_

_"Anyway, you're a thinking, breathing free magic construct—a dream come true for any researcher," said Mana happily, opening the cabinet doors. "Don't think I've forgotten that. It would be a blessed_ waste_ to let you slip through my fingers."_

"It's this way," said Mana, gesturing past a string of stalls. Three castles—far larger and more ornate than those in Dahlia's center—rose above the rows and rows of shipmasts and sails.

"Dezsra for the pretty knot, miss?" shouted a thin little demon to Mana, brandishing a handful of coiling pendants. Mana shook her head and the demon scampered away, still crying, "Pretty knot! Dezsra for the pretty knot!"

"It's like a different city," said Ryou wonderingly, watching as the urchin disappeared behind two demons hefting a crate of weird, wriggling, many-legged shellfish.

"Azor mines are weakened by water," said Mana. She was taking long, swift strides, her cloak—a ubiquitous brown, fraying but unpatched—swirling around her ankles, sun sparkling off her golden hair. "Bombings here are very infrequent; the mines usually fail or don't go off completely. This place is the one reason Dahlia's kept from dissolving into total chaos, I expect."

"Oh," Ryou murmured, struggling vainly to match her pace.

"Still unoccupied," said Mana in satisfaction, when Ryou finally reached her at the foot of the easternmost castle—a tall, graying, and mostly unimpressive building far from the edge of the wharf. The castles to its left were far more complex, decorated in gold and pristine Mediterranean paints. "It was white marble, pink veins all through," said Mana, a bit sadly, Ryou thought. "Mahaado kept it very clean. Well. Shall we go in?"

She glanced about furtively, then took Ryou by the wrist. They went directly to the front door, and Mana tugged the collar of her cloak further from her neck.

"I'm surprised no one's come and boarded it up after all this time," she muttered. "Have you missed me?" she said to the door, pressing her left palm against it and tangling the fingers of her right hand into a complex rune. The door opened outward, revealing a softly lit corridor and a high-banistered staircase. "I've brought a guest to see you."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

_She found Bakura crouched at the foot of the stairs, laughing like a dying man would cough, his head buried in his hands. At the sound of her footsteps pounding down, Bakura glanced up; at the sight of her, he threw his head back and laughed again, long and wild, and she felt her arms prickle at the sound._

_"Bakura!" She said it sharply, voice pitched high, and his laughter faltered._

_"I'll kill him," he gasped, drawing a quivering breath. "I'll kill him—for Shaitan's sake take him away, Mana, or I'll kill him—I'll kill him—"_

_Desperate to stop him and herself made half-savage by the noise, Mana grabbed him by the shoulders and belted him across the face with magic. His mouth began to bleed. "Bakura!" she snapped, and when that did nothing and his laughter only crescendoed, she said the name she'd overheard that night in the study, the one that Marikku had used with so much fear: "Bekhara!"_

_Finally, Bakura said, "Shaitan, poppet, but you've got a lovely right hook," and whistled. _

_Her neck creaked as she turned to look at him, paper-frail. He was wiping at his mouth. She sucked in a breath, then another, and another, until she felt she might be able to speak again. "Sorry," she said at last. "I didn't mean—I didn't know—bless. I'm sorry."_

_"Well," said Bakura, in suddenly lighthearted tones that cut her to the bone, "excellent work, at any rate. You've bashed my upper lip to bits and saved me in the process from some sort of cloying, sickening, impossible madness; congratulations. I'm ever so grateful. I could kiss you, I really could."_

_"What happened?" said Mana. She added, "He was bleeding," as she remembered Ryou's blank, panicked stare when he'd fled past her._

_"I didn't smash him across the face with a level three, if that's what you're hinting at," said Bakura darkly. "Really, this is unfair. I didn't do anything. I was attacked, for Moloch's sake." Mana said nothing, and he went on, tossing his head, "So you dragged him kicking and screaming away from that classmate of his and that wretch Kaiba? That's certainly impressive."_

_"No," said Mana. _Bakura!_ Ryou had exclaimed, at the sight of the patchwork cloak. "Excuse me."_

_Bakura hissed an oath under his breath, stalling her. "I suppose you thought it would be a nice surprise," he said, very quietly. "Mana."_

_"Yes; that's it exactly," said Mana tiredly, starting up the stairs again. Her knees would not bend; her legs were heavy. "But you should know that he came back willingly. Sir."_

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Jounouchi Katsuya and trains did not get along. The last time he'd gotten on one he'd been forced from his bed in the early morning, dragged across the streets, attacked by shrilly screaming undead things, and had a lung all but punctured by an angel. He was hoping that this time might go better for him—Otogi had even said, among his other various sentences, coos, and murmurs, that there wouldn't be ghouls and hopefully not angels—but you could never be sure, and he watched all incoming and outgoing trains carefully, shooting them wounded, wary looks every now and then.

Kaiba, the outlaw, had spent the better part of a half hour in the bathroom that morning and caused them to miss the six o'clock train. Jou had thought he was moping, but the demon reemerged with his face rearranged, one eye puckered and closed by a jagged scar, the other wider and unbelievably green. He was wearing the blue velvet coat, gaping open over a black sweater and the scarlet robes that Otogi had bought a few days ago.

"What?" Jou had sputtered. "Why are you even on the run if you can change your face however you—"

Then he noticed the strain that betrayed itself in the pink of Kaiba's cheeks. Kaiba turned to glare at him, but as his concentration slipped the scar seemed to waver and then drip down his face; the demon closed his eyes and breathed and Jou watched in amazement as the ruined flesh hardened and froze as though it had always been there, though, granted, it had moved somewhat lower.

And now Kaiba, with his new face, was buying them tickets. Otogi, standing beside Jou at the platform, had his hair tied at the base of the neck; he'd tucked the shining black length of it into his coat collar and removed the dice earrings. Jou, for his part, wore the traveling cloak up to his nose. It was far too warm and smelled too much like Kaiba for his comfort.

They were going to Vladmir, said Otogi, which was a quaint little town as far from the sea as you could imagine, three hours by the fastest train, six by the one they were taking, and half a minute if you were switching, but Kaiba wasn't on a proper network, being an outlaw and everything.

He said it with a poker face Kaiba might have admired, all while working his hand quietly under Jou's cloak and into Jou's right pocket, where he got his hand around the hipbone and squeezed.

Jou squeaked—in a manly way, of course, and as quietly as he could. He hoped very desperately that Kaiba was still buying tickets and had not turned around in time to see, even if the billowing cloak was hiding everything.

"Regret it yet?" said Otogi, very low in his ear.

Jou shivered. "Bastard. Maybe. I've had better," he added on a whim, feeling ridiculous standing in a train station with some other guy's hand all but down his pants. He let his chin jut forward. It was all normal. Everything had been fucked up since he'd been towed down the rabbit hole and everything being fucked up kind of negated this moment—which was scoring about average on Jou's own personal scale, somewhat above Spontaneously Combusting Shoes but rather below Demonic Spawn. Normal. "Better girls."

Otogi laughed and the sound washed down Jou's back in an electric tingle. Jou's pockets were deep; Otogi's hand slid further in. "Mmm. Of course. But you don't regret it."

"_Ah_," said Jou, before he could stop himself. "I s-. . .said maybe."

"Denial," fluted Otogi softly in his ear with a grin that Jou could _feel_, but he stilled his hand. Then Kaiba was back, looking at them stonily, and Jou became aware—slowly, like he was waking from a long dream—of a woman's voice, announcing the arrival of the next train:

". . .to Vladmir is approaching the platform. Eight-fifty train to Vladmir is approaching the platform. Have your tickets ready."

Demons were beginning to crowd behind them, bringing with them waves of noise—feet on concrete, voices chattering. Without a word, Kaiba held a ticket out to him, and Jou took it numbly. Kaiba's single green eye—it was just like Otogi's, Jou noticed—watched him steadily. He didn't seem to be glaring—only frowning, mouth pressed thin and tight in dour disapproval.

"Kaiba-boy, your scar is melting," chirped Otogi, from Jou's left.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Mai had come close to dying four or five times before in her life—in her line of work you got used to that kind of thing. Whole cliffs peeling away from the mainland and taking the cart with them, attacks from roving bands of escaped souls—those ridiculous, self-dubbed freedom fighters—and in recent years azor mine explosions or crossfire near the cities, those sorts of dangers. She'd be able to add Death by Angelic Legions to the list now, if she could survive long enough to find a proper healer. She'd patched up the hole in her chest as best as she could, when they'd left her for dead, but no doubt the bones in there would need some rearranging.

It was Keith she wasn't so sure about—he'd had an arm snapped and taken a nasty cut to the head, and, while the body wounds weren't serious, she didn't know how far in his skull had got knocked. It had been the hilt of a flaming sword, luckily, and not the blade—_that _would have gone clean through him, sliced him in two, perhaps. Maybe once he woke he wouldn't be able to speak again, be like a baby, soft in the brain. Or blind; she'd seen that kind of thing happen before. But he'd probably had worse in bar fights. She was probably worrying for nothing.

All the same. . .better to be sure. Contrary to what some might say, partners like Keith were hard to come by.

He'd been mostly conscious for the last day, able to hold up a conversation—better conversation than when he wasn't concussed, in fact—then the shock had set in, and a fever, and Shaitan knows what else. The seal on her stomach was flickering like crazy. She'd been hoping it would last longer, give her enough time to get _inside_ a hospital and _into _a nice bed.

But hospitals were hard to find and Dahlia was pretty much a _mess_—a real fucking mess, much worse than it had been the last time she'd been in the city, two months ago. All kinds of looting and bombs. Real fun. They'd been lucky they hadn't been attacked again, tempting lamed prey that they were.

The castle looming in front of her she'd seen before, and gotten to before in a roundabout way, when she'd been looking for her auctioneer's permit. Sister of a neighbor of a friend of Mom's had said Shaadi's the one, he'll get you by the red tape. Shaadi, of course, hadn't been the one; Mardis had meant some demon named Saada, a clerk at the government building, certainly not a courtier and a Lord. But Mai remembered the lines of broken-up demons outside this castle—there was a hospital around there, somewhere, once. She was thinking _once_ with an ever-growing feeling of dread, because on both sides of this castle were empty lots and not much else.

There was a demon coming out the gate—if she'd been able to duck, she would have, but there was no need: the turban and flowing robes were familiar to her, same as they'd looked a decade before.

He looked like he'd just come out into the sunlight after a month or three spent underground; unbelievably pale, eyes all but screwed shut. She staggered forward and snatched at him as he blundered past, face twisted into an exquisite grimace against the dying glare.

"Sh—Lord Shaadi!"

He spun about in a whirl of cloth. The turban—her eyes focused on it and saw tight, swirling embroidery—had been tied poorly and was already coming loose, the heavy tassels swinging around in a figure eight before coming to a halt. Her vision was beginning to swim; the seal she'd cast was half splintered already, and she knew the blood had to be pouring out again. "Kujaku Mai. We met—once, ten years ago. Healer. We need—a healer."

He peered at them, eyes catching on the oozing hole somewhere above Mai's stomach—blood and organs and ribs and _Shaitan _she needed to stop thinking about it. "Shaitan _below_," he hissed, and Mai realized his tone was not of shock but irritation. "I'm sorry, I haven't the time to see to it mys_—_Ju-ken!"

A guard came shuffling, dragging a heavy spear behind him.

"Ju-ken," said Shaadi, speaking quickly, feet already propelling the rest of his body down the street. "See to it that these two are treated. Immediately. They'll die otherwise. Was it a mine?" he asked Mai, very urgently.

She gazed at him, blinking woozily against the dizziness that was sweeping her in waves. _Was. . .mine. Azor. No, not an explosion. . . _"A—mine?" she repeated, slurring something awful. _Mom would have said, 'Not how ladies talk.' And Keith would tell me, 'You're making progress.' _"No, angels. Great—flaming scimitars. I kicked one. In the face. It had to hurt; punched a circle through me. M'bleeding; fucking hurts. Shit."

"Angels? A patrol?" Someone—most likely Shaadi, for who else could it be?—was grabbing at her, shouting, but she was past listening.

"This is Keith," she said to the guard named Ju-ken, who had wide, boyish blue eyes and an incongruously scarred and grizzled face. "Drunk. Good guy, though. M'partner. Head injury. Mebbe the brain's crushed. Make sure they get that."

"Sure, miss," said Ju-ken. He was staring at her. Staring at her stomach. _Keith would have knocked out your teeth. . ._

She figured they were in good hands. Sighed a bit. Let it all go black.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

_It seemed decades before she managed to climb, huffing, to the top of the winding staircase. She hadn't the strength the light all of the tapers, but that was all right: she could see Ryou, an indistinct shape huddled at the foot of the study door, arms wrapped around his knees and face pressed into his sweater, which he had taken off and bunched across his legs. She walked to him with her shoes tapping out an unsteady staccato, feeling as though her own legs could give out at any moment. And give out they did; she twisted her fourth and index fingers into a rune and slid to her knees as the torch nearest to her glowed to life._

_The boy hadn't shifted. She slowed her breathing. "Ryou?" she said._

_He seemed to awaken at the sound of her voice and lifted his head. In the dim light she saw with a jolt that the front of his sweater had gone dark and stiff. White fibers stuck here and there to the creases of his dry and bloodied mouth; they stirred in the whisper of air as he gave her a trembling sort of smile and said, "Hello, Mana-doll."_

_She looked him over again. He was white to the lips but otherwise unscathed, fever-bright eyes notwithstanding. The blood that covered him was old, already drying and flaking. She reached over to flick a larger patch of the stuff from the corner of his mouth—he flinched away—and was pleased to find him wholly and entirely solid._

_"I hadn't thought he would still be angry," he murmured._

_"You're all right," she told him, equally pleased to discover that she was no longer gasping for air._

_Ryou bowed his head and spoke into his knees. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you, Mana. I really did mean to get away. I managed it; Jounouchi-kun didn't. But he had a sense of things left undone—he stayed behind to finish them. I realized that, too, after I. . .there was no place for me. And things had been left quite undone." Until that moment he had been speaking with deliberation, pausing before each word to measure and choose the next carefully. He was becoming more rushed, agitated. "This castle in Dahlia—I thought that I should—that I—"_

That you couldn't leave Bakura, is that it?_ thought Mana to herself._

_"—I needed to finish things. Loose ends are dangerous; there's a proverb that goes like that, doesn't it, in both the upper and underworlds?" He was almost babbling._

_It occurred to Mana then that she might not have pulled Ryou out of shock after all, and that if she hadn't she must do so immediately. She took him firmly by the wrist, and he glanced up in bleary surprise. "Listen to me, Ryou," she said. "You have to tell me what happened." Shaitan knows Bakura won't—the flighty bastard!_

_"My body—" and he blanched further, to a pallor she hadn't thought even remotely possible "—the construct that is my body—there was a single moment where I wanted him as close to me as possible, so close that. . .oh, hell, is Bakura all right?"_

_"He's pink as an Arachne fishing boy," said Mana, scowling at the thought. At Ryou's puzzled stare: "He'll be fine. Go on."_

_"Deeper than sex," said Ryou next, and she blinked and thought that she'd heard him wrong until he repeated it. "Much closer than what sex could give. Inside. Closer. Together again. I wanted that, and the construct wanted that—the magic he had, so it. . ." He was ghastly white. "It's happened before. I had a sister once," he said. "Now I don't."_

_She stared, feeling a chill despite herself. _Free magic constructs aren't meant to think and breathe and want. But, sometimes, their makers do mean them to kill. . .

_"What will I do?" said Ryou dully. "I want to live; the urge to live is insane, Mana—I don't know if you'd understand it. In the hall before I felt like Bakura might kill me and in the next moment I knew that more than anything, I wanted to live—and in the moment after that that I wanted him. I sank. . .sank deep. There was nothing but gold behind my eyelids. What will I do?" he said again, after a silence. "I don't have anywhere to go."_

_"Go?" she repeated insensibly, then formed a fist and cuffed the side of his head. "Go? You blessed fool; d'you think I'd just let you walk off after all the trouble I went through to find you? You'll be staying here, under lock, key, and spell if need be."_

_Ryou gave a faint and watery chuckle. It was nothing like Bakura's shrieking laughter, which echoed still in her brain._

_"Look," said Mana. She felt as though she was shouting at him from a long way off—across a river—forcing the words through a roaring current of panic and exhaustion. "It's. . .it's simple enough. Constructs have makers. We can trace yours and learn exactly what you are and what you were meant to do."_

_He met her eyes, his own filled with the gambler's hope that thinks _this roll is the one; this roll will change everything. _"One of us is going to kill the other before the week is out," he said, "if I stay. If something isn't done."_

_"Then we'll have to do something," said Mana grimly. "Stay clear of Bakura today; that shouldn't be too difficult. I'll find you later in the afternoon and we can get started." She gave a wry smile. "It isn't as though I have anything else to do."_

_Irony aside, something was niggling at her senses: the realization that this might tie it all together, lay things bare to see—take her at last to Mahaado, to pull him from death._

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Isis thought she hadn't seen Shaadi this angry in months—perhaps not since her father's death, even. It was—frankly, it was refreshing. He took her blows lying down most of the time, no doubt in light of his recent infatuation with her or because of her so-called youthful inexperience: modulating his tones, trying to be soothing and managing only, in her view, condescension and indifference. Now, he stood blocking her path, eyes alight, hair wild, voice sharp.

"And for so long," he snapped at her, "you've kept this from me?"

She tried not to smile. "I may have made a mistake to state it so bluntly earlier," she said serenely. "As I've said, it's only a feeling of mine. He could be entirely unrelated. Or a distant relative."

"Bekhara bin Elna had no other family," said Shaadi, with so much certainty that she turned to stare at him.

"Of course not," she said, frowning. "If you're looking at official records, which, as you've told me, are somewhat foggy when it comes to his personal history. You haven't taken illegitimate children or adopted family into account?"

"Bekhara bin Elna had no family," Shaadi repeated, through gritted teeth. "I know it, Isis."

"He could even be an imposter—" she began.

"Isis, you're taking me to him at once," said Shaadi. "He's Marikku's friend, isn't he? The last remnant of Gozaburo's faction, who tried to kill you and your golden brother and end the Ishtal line for good—for reasons we've yet to unearth. That's why you're digging into this."

Isis did smile then, tightly. "He's a family friend," she said wryly. "He's been ill for a year and Marikku is concerned—"

"Shaitan below," said Shaadi, red-faced. "And you've kept this from me. For how long? Isis, have you any idea how dangerous—that demon _obliterated _the angelic army. Smashed it to pieces in a single afternoon!"

"So say the rumors," said Isis acerbically.

"They aren't rumors!" exclaimed Shaadi. "There are kilometer-wide _craters _in Deshret that he—take me to him."

"Very well. I was planning to pay him a visit myself—a social call, mind you; I've already left a note for Marikku. But what will you do?" said Isis skeptically. "If he broke the angelic army in a single afternoon, I doubt he'll have any trouble snapping your old bones—in ten seconds flat, what's more."

"Well, we must go immediately," said Shaadi, appearing somewhat appeased. His voice, when he spoke again, was far calmer. "I want to see him for myself, and speak to him, if he allows. And I'm not going to _attack _him—unless he attacks me first, that is."

She spelled the door shut behind her and declined his offered arm. "He runs a night-club, if you'll believe it," she said, eyeing the setting sun. "We may be in time to join the crowds."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Jou found himself making his way through a city. It was early morning, and foggy. Cars—the sparkling hubcaps of a big old green Mercedes caught his eye—were infrequent, blaring like monsters as they swept and rumbled down the deserted streets. Buildings rose impossibly tall above him, towering far into the mists, and as he looked around, wide-eyed as a child, he saw that he was not alone. A woman had him by the hand, and she was as tall as the buildings, stretching far into the sky—far enough that he could not see her face.

"Papa is coming today," she told him.

_Papa,_ he thought, churning the idea and the sound of it around in his head. He knew from his reading that you could have a Papa and that most people did, but he wasn't sure if he cared to have one. Most people had mothers, too, and he didn't, only—_the witch woman,_ supplied his subconscious when he could think of no name. Yes, she was all he needed, thought Jou, very firmly, and as he looked up again he noticed the woman was squinting ahead, the sun shining red on her dark hair and mouth. She was smiling.

"Papa lives in a very interesting place," she said, and her voice was low and sweet as she told him. _It's like the marketplace—do you remember the marketplace?—but so much nicer._

"So much nicer," he echoed, imagining it.

There was a rattle—bones or dice; it was dark all around him and he couldn't tell what had made the sound, but the clatter unnerved him. He was running again—had Kaiba by the arm and they were sprinting, full-force, toward some point in the distance—dead gray hands snatched at them, grabbing at his jacket—he heard the roar and screamed as the light, blinding white, swallowed him.

The explosion engulfed him and snatched him away.

As abruptly as his dream had ended, Jou took his time waking. There was no light in the compartment; either Kaiba or Otogi had drawn the blinds and shuttered the door. He guessed it had been Kaiba; Otogi was still slumped across him, sleeping like—well, like the dead, he supposed, gray in the face and un-breathing, though his feet were scuffling. Jou lifted the arm that had been plucking absently at his collar and arranged it neatly by Otogi's side. Otogi snuffled. There was some kind of music playing in the corridor beyond—a high, haunting sound. A flute, maybe.

Kaiba said quietly, "You were dreaming?"

"Yeah," said Jou. His left leg had fallen asleep and he tried to move it without waking Otogi. The dream was already fading from memory, becoming a series of unraveling images. "A city. . .in the morning. We were leaving. Maybe Domino. How long until. . .?"

"Three hours," said Kaiba, at once. He glanced at Otogi. "You haven't slept that much."

Jou thought for a moment but couldn't come up with a suitable retort—_shut up _or _fuck off_ were inflammatory, and what was the point? He wasn't feeling particularly hostile. It wasn't as though Kaiba was being nasty—not yet, at least, so why escalate things? He missed Honda, just a bit—the easy conversation, the banter. Knowing that Honda might get mad at him sometimes and try to beat him up, but never kill him. . ._or jump me, for that matter._

"Hmm," murmured Otogi with brilliant timing, mouth curling into an absurd little smile. _Fucking bloodsucker,_ thought Jou.

Kaiba raised an eyebrow; Jou realized he was grinning and hastily wiped his face blank. "Look," he said quickly, "what are you planning? World tour or something? Because that's what it seems like—one city after another. Everywhere we go, things try to kill us. What's your objective here?"

Kaiba seemed about to say something—then he smirked. "And here I thought you'd come back just to be near me. Unshakeable loyalty. No questions asked. Like a dog. Go back to sleep, mutt; you'll need it the next time the vampire keeps you up. Who knows? Maybe you'll dream up some answers."

"_Christ_," snarled Jou, flushing. He swore again as his chest began to throb. "What's with you? Can't you just—"

But Kaiba had closed his eyes, and, for all points and purposes, seemed to be dozing.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

The interior of Mahaado's castle looked very much like that of a house Ryou had seen in a magazine long ago—American South and subtly furnished with dark wood and white paint. Immediately to their left rose the staircase upward, mahogany banister glowing in the light of the afternoon. The steps led up to a gloomy space that hung low over them, bulging ominously from water damage.

"Have you been coming here?" said Ryou, as they stepped inside. The interior was dusty, yes, but otherwise far too clean for a castle that had been abandoned—five years ago, it was, Mana had said.

"When I had the time," said Mana, shedding her cloak and dropping it on the table. She took Ryou's from him and set it beside hers. "I haven't been able to for months, though. You needn't worry," she added. "I've disabled the ground-level castle-traps. The rest are self-renewing, though, so don't step ahead of me at any point once we've cleared the first floor."

"Right," said Ryou. _Wasn't planning to._

"Mahaado's library takes up most of the third floor," Mana told him. She found a candle and jammed it into the brass holder that lay beside it, lighting it with a little puff of breath. "It's enormous, and certain sections are also booby-trapped. I have been siphoning books away and storing them in my room at Bakura's castle, but there are books that I haven't figured out how to remove just yet. If those are the books we need, we may have to return at a later time to finish up."

Somewhere along the staircase, Mana found a hidden panel and flipped a switch. Soft yellow light rose from the second floor, illuminating their path.

"This was a sea-side palace, once," Mana continued. Dust had fallen from the ceiling, coating them in gray powder and giving Mana's silhouette a soft, fuzzy look. Ryou was sure he looked the same; he sneezed. "The entire complex was one big building that belonged to some great lord, who shortly before he died broke it into parts and sold each segment off to separate owners. Mahaado moved the household here from center-city Dahlia." She smiled ruefully. "He thought it would be safer for us."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

The room was hot when Mai woke—stifling, even. Beside her, Keith snuffled in his sleep. She shifted a bit, stretched out her arm to paw at the ceiling fan switch—it was kind of ancient; you had to hit it a few times—then pain seized her and shook her until she was gasping into her pillow.

_Ah, that's right,_ she thought. _Hole. Stomach. Fun._

She waited until she felt less like cursing and rolled gingerly onto her side. The bed dug into her skin: a reed mat. Keith looked okay, sleeping like a baby—a little worse for wear, sure, a bit bruised. Someone had cleaned up the blood and done a passable job of wrapping up his head. She peeled a sweat-glued piece of hair away from his forehead and smoothed it back.

The wall was at her shoulder. She raised herself as slowly as she could ("Shit!"), let her head fall back against it, and sat there breathing, taking in their surroundings.

They were in a hallway, or some kind of storage area, it looked like. It was pretty dark; there was a small shuttered window at one end, but a few of the blinds had snapped, allowing a little beam of light to creep cautiously in. Opposite the window she could see stacked crates and a shrouded sofa and not much else; as she squinted, she became aware of something else—a low murmur of speech from the wall behind her.

". . .almost got it. . ."

". . .someone out there, _Hae_. . ."

The wall creaked; she groped behind her and discovered it was a door, old, wooden, paint splintering. The voices continued; it was some kind of whispered dispute. Frustrated, Voice One squawked out an oath and ground into silence. It was a male voice, adolescent and warbling when loud; when controlled the sound of it was quite pleasantly deep. Not as scratchy as Keith's. Voice Two—you couldn't blame Mai for being unoriginal, not then—was milder, very gentle and smooth. A child's voice, almost. Mai pressed her fingers into the crack under the door and felt cooler air. Cellar, maybe, or stairs—she drifted for a moment, spinning in the heat and the dark.

A metallic _click_ brought her back. Another creak and she tensed. "_Got it,_" hissed Voice One faintly. "Shaitan-blessed. . ."

"He would only use a lock, not magic?" Voice Two had a stilted sound to it, an accent that she recognized but could not name. They were _much _closer than before—all but speaking in her ear.

"Expected us to be more docile. . ."

The hand that brushed her elbow was small and hot, but dry. A startled intake of breath. "_Hae!_ Someone is—"

Mai winced as fingers scrabbled toward, found, and dug into her skin, between two tendons of her neck. She felt sluggish and lazy, moving far too slowly to shake the offending limb away. . .

"Door guards?" wondered Voice One. Then, quietly: "_Third level's sl. . ._"

Stars opened before her eyes. She fell far and deep.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Senbi perched behind the remains of a ruined black-iron balcony and rubbed his hands together. He couldn't believe his luck. Cutting purses and promising worse, he'd been making quite a living off the crowds that were flowing through Dahlia. Mostly refugees. He'd been careful about that, got the ones who didn't have any connections, had the house back in Uster and wore the wealth of the family in jewelry—set themselves right up, those ones did. Senbi wasn't a big fellow, and it was for that reason that the other thieves like that blessed Asher had edged him out easily—beat him back with magic and brute strength, things he didn't have, into a side street where demons hardly ever came, at least not the rich ones. Senbi had gnashed his teeth but there wasn't much to be done.

Anyway, no problems. Yes, no worries at all, for Senbi might not have been a big fellow, but he was clever, and it was that cleverness that had got Asher what he deserved. Asher and his thugs had laughed at him, beaten him bloody, but it was cleverness that had got Senbi the gold around his neck, which he'd taken from Asher's broken body—gave the bastard a good hard kick, too.

It was cleverness that had got him through until last week, when the azor mine blew up most of the block and all of his hunting grounds. Broke his foot, what's more. He'd fixed that fast enough, but he'd realized that he was staring into starvation's maw, and for the first time, Senbi had been afraid.

But no longer. Senbi leered into the street where a dusk-darkened figure, white hair standing out like a torch, was picking its way drunkenly through the rubble. There swung around a shining wrist a heavy purse—sackcloth paired, incongruously, with brocade strings. A female, probably, from the swaying of the hips, though it was hard to tell under than cloak. Refugee women were unpredictable; some days you got the tough sort who would kick you in the shins and get away, and some days you got the fainting maiden types, the noble ladies of Uster, who Senbi appreciated infinitely more than local stragglers. Very reasonable, those. Senbi licked his lips.

Some noise at his back, a dry scuttling, made him turn his head. He found himself staring into a pair of great big eyes glowing like lanterns, each cut down the center by a black slice of pupil. In his ears there rose a furious yowling.

"Beezlebub!" He grabbed for his daggers and tumbled back, slashing outward. The thing leapt at him with enormous claws—Shaitan, they were each of them the size of a knife blade—

He swore as a swiping blow caught him across the shoulder, shredding cloth and skimming across the flesh beneath. The creature surged forward for another blow, and Senbi executed a move an old partner had taught him, when they'd double-teamed on the street—

He grabbed the thing around the neck with both arms and slammed it hard against the rocks, all fifty-five-some kilos of it, losing his daggers in the process; it yowled again and began to struggle, almost thrusting free at several points, but he held his grip and pushed with his entire body. There was a weird hissing—a succession of thick and leathery ropes swung at his back, but they were glancing blows and he ignored them. Lightning quick he let one arm come free; he scrabbled around for the hilt of his dagger, and found the blade instead, but snatched it up anyway. Adrenaline masked the sting. He brought the dagger across, one slash down and it would all be finished—his quarry would be gone by then, but this thing, whatever it was, ought to be able to provide some meat—

"Let's not kill my cat, please," said a voice lightly in his ear. He felt the prick of cold metal against his neck at almost the same instant the thing he'd been wrestling ceased to fight and lay still. Senbi let his dagger drop and twisted the bare amount that the knife at his throat allowed.

Mad red eyes regarded him.

"Shaitan!" gasped Senbi, as his attacker leaned over him and the hair, gleaming white like polished bone, came into view. "You're not—"

"I'm not?" said Senbi's former prey with a crooked smile. "I don't know what I'm not, but I'll tell you what you're not—a magician! Medusa, darling, don't tell me you've made a mistake. I won't stand for it. Not for a moment."

The cat—Shaitan, it looked to be as large as a bear!—padded toward them. Senbi cringed back—not from the cat, which he knew he had subdued and could do again if he were free—but from the tails, which were many and which moved like a single entity, a collection of hissing snakeheads. "Poisontails," he croaked, and yelled aloud as the cat jumped at him, pressing him to the ground with its forepaws. The snakes lashed closer, tongues flickering, then spun toward the white-haired demon, waiting.

"Ohh," said the demon, squatting beside them. "I see." He peeled Senbi's coat back and rummaged around the breastbone as Senbi lay quiet, barely daring to breathe.

His attacker's hand reemerged with Asher's central pendant tangled around it, a huge disc of a ruby cut with some kind of family crest—a ten-petaled lotus or something. Senbi had been saving it for when times became really desperate. Gem like that would really fetch a lot, after all.

The knife returned to prod his throat. "Yours?"

"N-no," managed Senbi with chattering teeth. He was quite sure he would be killed—after all his efforts—

"Well, good, then," said his attacker cheerfully, lifting Senbi's head. Senbi felt the pendant shifting across his chest—then its heaviness left him entirely. "You don't mind entrusting it to me for safe-keeping? Lovely. Really excellent. Good job, Meddy-my-sweet. I shouldn't have doubted you."

There was a clink as the white-haired demon slid Asher's pendant over his own head and took the cat by the scruff of its neck. Senbi screamed as the streetlight, shining weakly from the mouth of the alley, flickered and went out, plunging the world into darkness.

There was the barest rustle of cloth. The demon, striking down with the blade, Senbi thought, squeezing his eyes shut—but no such strike came.

Panting, Senbi scrambled to his hands and knees, ignoring the gravel and glass that tore at his skin as he groped about for his daggers. A moment later he discovered there was no need; the blood-eyed demon and his terrible cat had gone.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Jou woke swiftly this time to a feeling of deep unease pooling in his stomach—and a terrible cold prickling up his body. He found Kaiba's face the barest of distances from his own and, jolted into alertness, opened his mouth to yell.

_Shit, fuck, _what_ the—_

Kaiba's hold on his jaw tightened to the point of pain—or would have, if he'd been thawed enough to feel it. "Quiet," muttered Kaiba urgently, his breath ghosting across Jou's un-immobilized cheek. "Just—keep quiet."

Jou froze. He'd realized two things and the enormity of the second had bowled him over: the train had stopped moving and Kaiba was about to kiss him. _Fucking. . .fuck._

Without any warning, Kaiba grabbed the un-petrified part of Jou's face with his free hand. Jou would have cursed—anything, really—but the cold was moving rapidly across his skin, settling deep between the muscles, shortening some, lengthening others and stopping air-flow. His vision wavered; thorns pricked his eyebrows, scalp, and chin. Kaiba breathed out again and it was the only warmth Jou could feel, coming up against his icy lips, softening them. He felt them thin and _slide_, just a bit to the right, Kaiba's eyes following and directing the movement.

Kaiba touched his own face, then, and Jou saw the flesh there ripple and stretch. The jaws distorted and grew wider, and then, with his teeth clenched in concentration, Kaiba pulled at the skin across his nose. Jou watched, amazed, as it puckered into a half-healed scar.

Breathing hard, Kaiba sat back. "You're a thirty year old bookkeeper, Arachne-born, Dahlia-local. You're looking for work in Vladmir. You have an aging mother in Uster from whom you haven't had word. You call yourself Tepemkau. Otherwise, let me do the talking. Got it, mutt?"

"Yeah, got it," said Jou gruffly, then broke off, astonished to find that his voice had dropped and roughened. He toughed his face—stubble. His hair—brownish, to the jaw. "This is—incredible! But—"

"Don't talk much," said Kaiba flatly. "You'll strain the mask."

"Oh," said Jou, noticing that instead of Otogi he now had a redhead in his lap, a sweet, sandy sort of cinnamon. He twisted a curl around his fingers and thought of Shizuka. "But—"

_Why did we stop, _he was going to ask, but there was no need. Someone was talking just beyond in the corridor; Kaiba rose, pressing at the scar, and went to the compartment door. "Who is it?" he said. The door slid open with crash loud enough to wake the dead—but thankfully not Otogi, who was going to raise hell if he saw what had been done to his hair—and in stepped an angel, flanked closely by two others. They were wingless, but all three wore scimitars at their hips—sheathed for the moment, at least. The first angel—the leader, Jou figured, by virtue of the decorated sash he wore—pushed past Kaiba and into the center of the compartment.

"I'm authorized to search this train," he said, voice like a series of clicking gears. Jou bit at a numbed lower lip and fisted the youngish hands that no longer matched his face.

Kaiba had tensed as if to attack. As Jou watched, heart jumping so loudly he thought they could all hear it, thought Otogi might wake, the ice demon glanced over the spread scroll held out to him, then relaxed and yielded against the arm that a secondary angel thrust out against his chest. Scowling, he sat back and said loudly, "Your kind isn't welcome here."

_Shit, _thought Jou, _they'll be on us in seconds. _But it looked like the angels had been getting the same kind of reception from the other demons in the train; they ignored Kaiba's tone and continued their perusal of the seats—lifting cushions, shifting cloaks.

"Your name, demon?" said the leading angel briskly to Kaiba.

"Ibrahim," snapped Kaiba, "bin Farouk, and you'll do well to remember it."

"What," said Jou tremulously, and Kaiba's eye, a chemical green, flickered to him, "are you searching for?"

The angel looked at him a long moment; he seemed to be choosing his words. The eyes were pale brown, opaque like frosted glass, the face white and porcelain-perfect. Jou swallowed hard and watched the yellow lashes, doll-like and thick. "A fugitive," said the angel finally. "One of our own."

"You'll find none of the sort here," said Kaiba swiftly. He'd adopted a twisting brogue—Jou would have laughed if he hadn't felt ill. "Get out."

After a series of clicks and a seemingly wordless exchange, the angels moved to the door. The two without sashes left immediately, turning simultaneously to the right. Jou heard their footsteps as they walked—muffled like a fragile mug stuffed with cloth, or some other cushiony material. Their captain lingered, eyes on Kaiba. "Thank you, Mister Farouk," he said. "Good day." He stepped out and slid the compartment door quietly shut.

Kaiba, to his credit, waited nearly a minute before pouncing. "Fool!" he hissed, drawing a sharp breath, and Jou felt his eyes swelling, his lips slipping leftward and up, three day's growth of beard trickling from his jaw—moisture evaporating from his face. "Shaitan-blessed _idiot._ I told you not to speak. Not a _word._"

"Your face," said Jou softly. Kaiba's good eye was still frightfully green.

Kaiba ignored him. "What were you thinking?" he said, single eye getting narrower and narrower. "They might have dragged you out to interrogate you. Woken Otogi up. The spell could have slipped. Shaitan knows. Idiot!"

Jou shivered. "They weren't looking for you," he said. "Dammit. Doesn't that matter to you at all?"

"They could have been lying!" said Kaiba in a deadly whisper. His scar was dripping from his chin. "Shaitan. You don't know what they were really searching for. You _don't_ know! You _don't know._"

"So I don't know," Jou grated out. "So tell me! Shit! I want to—to help. You're right, okay? I came back to follow you around, big shiny eyes and everything. You piss me off but I want to help. Shit. Fuck. _God._" He slammed his back against the seat and swore, body jerking in pain. "Fuck, just forget it. I'm your dog. Loyal dog of the military. I'll do whatever you fucking want. Your mutt. Okay?"

Kaiba dragged a hand across his face and wiped the remains of the scar against the seat.

"Loyal or no," he said, "you're a liability." Jou felt a wetness spreading across his legs and looked down to see that Otogi's hair had gone black again. "You're not a fragment or a soul that I've hacked from a body. Get in the way and something will cut you down the middle. There's nothing after that."

"I don't care," said Jou sullenly. "If you'd just tell me. . ."

"All right, you don't care," said Kaiba brutally. "We've established that you've not the brains to care. Some others might. Your sister, for instance. . ." he trailed off, watching Jou closely.

"I think you really don't give a fuck what my sister cares about," said Jou, meeting Kaiba's eyes steadily.

_I can play it as cool as he does. Just fucking watch me, Kaiba._

"Nrgh," groaned Otogi, shoving his elbows into Jou's kneecaps as he sat up. "Slept long, did I?" Then, as neither Jou nor Kaiba answered, he took a quick scan of his surroundings. "Minor dispute, I see. I'll, uh, go back to sleep. Sorry to disturb."

Jou grabbed him by the wrist and squeezed, stalling him. Otogi stared at him with wide eyes. "I think you did pick me for a reason," Jou said to Kaiba. He parted his lips in a ruthless grin, the one he'd given Shizuka's high school stalker before he'd beat the shit out of the poor bastard. "Don't worry—I won't ask now. But I'm going to find out."

A chill was rising in the compartment. Kaiba's eyes were dark, but he said nothing.

_Kaiba, twelve, sure. But Katsuya Jounouchi, one, _thought Jou. _And counting._

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Contrary to what Isis had envisioned, there were no crowds hovering about ANKH at dusk. The entire street was rowdy, certainly, but ANKH—only the A and K flickered valiantly on—had been sadly reduced. The lot in front of the demon's castle was empty. Demons in groups of threes and fours stopped before the front doors, puzzling, but moved on quickly, perhaps spooked by the silent cold that emanated from the crumbling structure.

Shaadi went swiftly to the door, ignoring the stares that came his way. Isis followed, wind—or magic—filtering through her hair and shaking the glass beads that dangled around her shoulders.

Isis reached past him and made a sweeping motion, pinching her fingertips together. She was gathering the faltering wards, and, as they touched her, they became visible—fraying, dull-brown strands. She brought them carefully to her lips. "Bakura?" she said. "It's Isis. I've brought a visitor. Are you able to come to the door?"

There was no answering reply through the tangled wards, and they waited—Shaadi with his heart in his mouth. _Bekhara bin Elna. . .alive!_

"I hope he's not so ill that he can't speak," Isis muttered. "He has a servant—" she raised the wards again "—Mana, are you there? It's Isis—Isis Ishtal, Marikku's sister!"

Another pause—quiet.

"Well," said Shaadi quite cheerfully. "We'll have to break in, then. Stand back a bit, will you, Isis?"

She stared at him. "That's not at all like your usual Council blather."

_Blather?_ he thought, feeling slightly pained. Aloud, he only said, "But you don't object?"

She smiled faintly. "There may be no one home, in which case we can leave and wipe clean any traces of our presence, or Bakura may be lying on the floor abandoned and dying, or already dead. Or he may simply be preoccupied. As I said, he's ill, and likely in no shape to attack on sight. There are no major traps on the first floor, at any rate."

"Quite right," said Shaadi. "Well said." He waited a moment, palms pressed flat against the rusted surface, but could sense no outstanding magical barriers.

A single pulse of magic and the door slid noiselessly open. Shaadi stepped back and surveyed what lay beyond—no tapers were lit; old black stone made up the corridor, hung with all manner of tapestries and rugs to remove the chill, and extended into the darkness. As he shifted, outside light caught the floor at the far end and revealed the brief gleam of a checkered floor—the dance-room, it seemed.

Isis made to move past him; he caught her arm. "Just in case," he said, and stepped over the threshold himself. "Keep to the walls."

She nodded grimly and followed him into the gloom.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Mana straightened her back and stretched long and luxuriously, glancing outside as she did. Warm red sunlight was filtering in through the balcony glass, catching Ryou where he lay on the floor, surrounded by books, and bathing him in gold. He'd found a pencil and had been scribbling notes, but now, no doubt distracted by the awful crack her neck had made, he looked up and caught sight of the sun.

"Oh," he breathed, and smiled at the window. "That's—that's really pretty."

She rose and went to the sliding door, tugging it open. "Take a break," she said to Ryou. "We've been here three hours already and you haven't moved from the floor. The balcony's safe."

_"You've been very diligent," said her master, and she looked up from her runework to grin at him. "The sun's rising, though—shall we take a look?"_

"You're sure—that's all right—?" He clambered to his feet, hesitating a moment before rushing to the door. "Mana, it's beautiful!" he exclaimed, turning back and beaming at her. Then, remembering himself, he gave a guilty little shrug of the shoulders and snatched a stack of books from the floor before vanishing outside with reading material hefted under one arm. A sigh of delight followed him as he went.

"Leave the door open!" she called. "There's a nice breeze."

He made a muffled reply, voice lost in the sound of whispering air and waves and the faint shouts that filtered up from the wharf below. It was good to be back in her master's castle, sitting at his desk as she hadn't in years—she patted the well-worn, ink-splattered surface fondly, then stepped directly to the wall and let her head thump soundly against it: once, twice.

No luck! No progress! As far as the books were telling her—and these books were ever-changing in content—Ryou was a magical phenomenon, an unthinkable, impossible creation.

_At least he likes this castle_, she thought sourly. Ryou had reacted with wide-eyed wonder at most of Mahaado's self-regulating castle traps, marveling at their cleverness. He had particularly liked the maze-corridors with their central hall of mirrors, doors, and secret passages—like a carnival funhouse, he'd laughed. _They're not vicious,_ he'd said, smiling. _These aren't cruel traps—they will catch you and they will hold you, but only until the mastermind comes to free you, and I'm sure he would have done it immediately. These aren't meant to maim and kill._

Mahaado hadn't been one to maim and kill, she thought. Not like Bakura.

There was a possibility that Ryou's father had been lying, or insane, or had had no idea what he was talking about. _Any of those, really_, she thought, remembering the man's empty gaze as she slipped through his apartment, calling for his son.

She let her head fall again—stopped, listening, and thumped it once more. _Hollow._ Quickly, because things were liable to move about in this castle, and change however they willed, she grabbed at the wall panels and pressed, muttering a spell that would turn her hands javelin-sharp for a second or two. Her fingertips splintered easily through a thin wooden veneer and found a leather-bound book, thin and mostly composed of parchment scraps tied haphazardly together. She wondered a moment at the hiding spot—a strange place to keep anything, especially for Mahaado, who was absentminded and likely to forget where he'd jammed things away—then recalled that there had been a picture hanging there before, of—

"—_of a beautiful place," said Mahaado, tapping the glass with a finger. "This is Elna, the hidden village."_

_Mana stared at the picture and saw only sand dunes, high and chiseled._

_"Can't see it, can you?" said Mahaado smugly. "Only the worthy can enter. No, I'm teasing. But it really is hidden, you see—it doesn't exist anymore, at least not among those dunes."_

"Elna," she whispered aloud, and jolted in fright as the book _leapt_ from her hands, pages rustling, and fell open upon the desk.

_A search spell. . .?_ She sat, scanning the passages. They were written in Mahaado's hand, in a dark blue scrawl made all the more difficult to read by poor blotting and smudging. _'It's done,' _he had written. _'Elna is no more. I feel sick and desperate, wild—to think that this was something my fellow scholars supported! In the name of magic and science. We've destroyed a hundred lives for the sake of a spell, and that spell seems to have failed. The Items have lost their shine; they have aged a hundred years in a single day. It was only with Akhenaden's support that the sorcerers succeeded in convincing Shaitan; without him—'_

The book spewed paper and opened at a new passage. The search spell was old, coming in bursts of crackling light and shredding the pages as it did.

_'This very night I suspect I've come across a villager of Kuru Elna—he's made no mention of his past or homeland, but his coloring—what a way to ascertain one's origins!—is appropriate, dusky skin and moonlight hair. I wax poetic, perhaps, but the massacre of that day is never far from my thoughts. He's asked me to take him on as an apprentice, and he comes highly recommended—from Sugoroku himself. His left-handed runes are nothing short of brilliant; I say left-handed because his right hand and wrist have been crushed and healed improperly. He can do little more than force the fingers into a claw and perform basic r—'_

New entry. _'Gozaburo is _mad_. He's power-hungry and haven-bent on gaining the throne. Shaitan must be careful. After Elna, the mood at court is somewhat rebellious, and Gozaburo already controls the treasury and holds half the Council in his pocket—'_

The book made to turn its pages, but Mana interrupted it with a voice like a bell: "Kismet, Mana."

_'I've a new student this morning—Kismet's Mana, as she says she is called. She is not yet of age and her parents—a pair of relatively well-to-do, well-known merchants in the northern lands—have sent her here to have her education finished. I was reluctant to take her on, past experiences with apprentices being what they were, but she made quite an impression on me at our interview. She is a stick of a girl, blond and almost sickly, but precocious, eager to absorb as much as I'm willing to teach her. Her fingers are spry—runes are complicated for younger students but she seems capable—'_

Then: _'Oh, Shaitan, of all the things I thought could go wrong this certainly wasn't one of them. She's in love with me, bless the girl—I can see it, absolutely, when she gazes at me. Puppy love is what it is, but she'll be a siren in a few years—I have to get rid of her!' _This was dated the sixth of the eight moon—a week before her sixteenth birthday.

"Kismet's Mana," said Mana very softly to the book. It quavered and opened again, much later. _'. . .don't know what I'd do if Mana weren't here with me. I read back in these entries and I must say that I laughed to think I tried once, so frantically, to send her away. She has become entirely practical and capable, very good with the younger students, though she still gets a bit misty-eyed when she looks at me. A very good thing, however, and much more welcome than any housekeeper's nagging! She's still moonstruck, but that will pass. . .in the meantime, I claim her as my first success story! Her runes are quite complicated now; she is even able to dislocate her knuckles at will to achieve the worst of the twists. Spell work is also immensely improved. . .'_

Another entry, dated six months later. _'I have seen Isis today.' _Words scratched out, and then: _'It's too soon. Shaitan it's too soon. M—'_

Mana closed the book gently and sat for a moment with her hands pressed to the humming, sun-warmed leather, tasting the familiar magic at the back of her stinging throat. She gazed at the wall, lighter where the picture had been.

"Ryou?" she called. "We should go before darkness falls."

_"And where does Elna exist, if not in that desert?" said Mana, eyeing the sun broiling above the high and lonely dunes. "It must be a powerful spell."_

_"Excellent question," said Mahaado. "Elna exists in the blood of its people. As long as they live, Elna is with them—is carried with them wherever they go. It's not a spell that keeps Elna clinging to life, dangerous and desperate and vengeful."_

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Shaadi entered the dance-room cautiously, like a child creeping out to his first performance on stage. His sandals sounded on the floor—deadened thumps that seemed to echo on for considerable amounts of time. Quietly, he let a small sun blossom in his hand. The tiles beneath him were dull and scratched, smeared here and there with black marks or long, oily stains that shone a rainbow of colors when the light he held in his fist passed over them. There was a bar in the corner, bottles, mixers, and shakers stacked along shelves, broken glass and other debris scattered on the counter and along the area under the sleek metal stools. He opened his senses and felt month-old magic—a cleaning spell here, a light spell there, a stamina spell directly under his feet.

And then, vaguely, settling uneasily across his senses, came the smell of myrrh. He noticed it slowly and heard the accompanying tinkle of Isis' hair-baubles too late.

Ten steps behind him in the vast ballroom, Isis cried out. Shaadi spun immediately and found himself face to face with a maniac yellow smile and red eyes that cast their own wicked shine in the light. He gave jerked in surprise and staggered back, light spell going haywire and casting weird, spiraling shadows across the room.

"Bekhara!"

The demon spoke to him in the old tongue, in a dialect that chilled Shaadi to the bone. "Aye," whispered Bekhara. "And what's this? Is it you, Lord Shaada? Shaitan's very own Shaada?

"You're a bit behind times," continued the demon, before Shaadi could reply. There was savage laughter in his voice. "These days, I go by Bakura."

The myrrh scent had grown cloying and thick in Shaadi's nostrils. Isis' bangles, somewhere in the dark, shivered and clattered out a warning; Shaadi sprang back as Bekhara sent a bolt of black magic swinging at him in a sizzling arc.

He was fighting, Shaadi knew, for his very life. Bekhara came at him like a wraith, cutting away Shaadi's spells like he was parting spider-webs, or some other collection of fragile gossamer threads. _But, _thought Shaadi, stumbling backward under the force of the assault, _there is no doubt that this is Bekhara—Bekhara bin Elna, whom we all thought dead. He's more than half mad, if not entirely—!_

"I want to speak to you!" he shouted, catching Bekhara by the wrist and breaking a rune that would have torn out the tendons in his legs. "That's all!"

"And I," hissed Bekhara, forming another rune, "don't care to hear it!"

The shockwave of the next attack knocked Shaadi to his hands and knees; bottles shattered. "Shaadi!" called Isis. "Where in Shaitan's name are you? He's done something to my eyes—a seal—Bakura, he's a friend!"

"Stay back! He's gone battle-mad; he won't hear you!" Shaadi roared, and took a blow to the gut as he turned his head—he swore as a rib cracked; doubled over in pain, he received another two hits to his midsection, enough to knock the air from his lungs.

Dry-retching, Shaadi retreated, letting the darkness shield him. It was only a matter of seconds before Bekhara found him again, but he wanted to confirm something. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the pulse he'd felt, emanating from somewhere on Bekhara's body. That was the source of this insane power—if he could sever it, he might be able to slow Bekhara in time to stun him—

A soft chuckle sounded behind him. "Murderer," crooned Bekhara into Shaadi's ear, breath like a caress.

Hands wrapped about his throat and slammed him against the bar; his head smashed through a row of glasses and into the hard countertop. "Gnngh!" grunted Shaadi, strangling—Bekhara snarled wordlessly—yes, _there_ it was! Over the heart. He plunged his hands into Bekhara's robes; hot metal met his fingertips. _An amulet!_

Isis was murmuring low and quick under her breath. The lights were growing brighter, and Shaadi's feet less heavy. He punched a spell directly into Bekhara's chest—free magic that burned his mouth—and wrested free for a moment.

Now it was only a matter of timing. As Bekhara came at him with another one of those terrifying, _old_-magic blades, he would destroy the amulet. The effect was like that of a rug being pulled out from under one's feet—Bekhara's magical stores would experience sudden, instantaneous depletion, a backlash that would, at worst, turn his movements sluggish and throw him into a world of pain, giving Shaadi a respite he very much needed. At best, the shock of it might return him to his senses. An anticlimactic trick, perhaps, but a useful one that he'd learned long ago, mostly to deter would-be muggers who were muscling up on stolen magic-imbued pendants.

Bekhara's next spell was wordless, but a heartbeat before the onslaught came Shaadi could taste myrrh oil on his tongue—rapidly, he spoke the next set of words and felt his right arm extending, claw-like, as his lips blistered—then his fingertips, meters long, were coiling through the air, cracking hard against Bekhara's back—

He'd missed, but Isis hadn't. Quick as a whip she came up behind Bekhara and tore the amulet from his neck, dashing it to the ground and crushing it under her heel. Bekhara howled—fury unquenched.

Another pulse—one that Shaadi felt hard between his ribs—magic exploding outward. Then nothing.

Bekhara, face gone bone-white, made no other noise as he swayed and crumpled to the ground.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

A/N: The wharf segment of this chapter was mostly inspired by Yuutaan's excellent fanart depicting the Arachne port. Which I will get around to posting on lj. . .she is really amazing.

Umm. Dates for next update. I really don't know. Not abandoning the story, though, and it (hopefully) won't be another three or four months till chapter sixteen. Hang in there! I will give you snogging. Definitely some snogging in the next chapter.

OTAKON. I am going as Rhode/Road/Lode Kamelot from D.Gray-Man on Saturday. . .look for me. You know. In the sea of Goth-Loli otaku.


	16. a good son of shaitan

FAUST  
yuugiou fanfiction  
ryuujitsu & co.  
chapter sixteen: a good son of shaitan

Disclaimer: Saying Yuugiou belongs to us is like saying Faust is always updated on time. Uh-huh. Sure.

A/N: LOL ONE DAY I WILL FINISH THIS FIC.

itftc:

"thanks a bunch for being a waffle!"

--japanese t-shirt

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Mana and Ryou returned on foot to Dahlia's red light district with dusk chasing at their heels. All through their hasty journey from the city's outskirts to its very center Mana had been glancing worriedly at the rising moons, increasing her speed whenever she did so and urging Ryou to keep up. He did so as best as he could; barely seconds after they'd left the wharf, his chest had begun to hurt. He hadn't thought it possible for souls to suffer from cardiac problems given that they generally had no real hearts to speak of; he'd been wrong. As they rounded the corner with Ryou choking for breath, he saw that a small crowd had gathered at the sidewalk leading to the castle. Twenty or so young demons stood before him, chatting quietly and turning every so often to gaze at the pathetic neon _A-K-_. Recognition flickered across the open, curious faces of a few as Mana hurried past, and demons tugged at her cloak, calling after her:

"Mistress Mana, is it? ANKH's open tonight?"

"It's been a week…is Bakura all right? What's happened; were you bombed? Are you open? The castle looks deserted…"

Mana frowned at the woman who'd caught her arm, a tired-looking sort with glittering green eyelashes. "No, we aren't open," she said brusquely, shaking her off. "Please let us through."

"But—" Someone grabbed Ryou's shoulder. He ignored the faint, unpleasant tingling and turned with a similar reply—which died in his throat.

"Sorcha!"

In daylight he might not have recognized her, but he remembered this—the red lips, the honey-alcohol smell of her, the copper glow of her hair in the dark and her obscenely short skirt. Nothing had changed.

She did not greet him. "You're sure? Has something happened to Bakura?" she whispered, low. "I haven't seen him since—since the last time you and I met."

He shrugged away her hand. "Why are you here?"

Under the streetlight, the sticky red of her lower lip formed a surprised O. "To dance," she said. "I heard from some others that ANKH was open tonight. They saw demons going in, you see."

Mana had been hovering behind them, waiting; at Sorcha's words she inhaled sharply. "That can't be," she said. "I left the door locked."

"It hasn't been but thirty minutes since," said another demon standing nearby, tall and swarthy and wearing a heavy scowl. "Two of 'em. Door opened easily enough; are you lying to us?"

Something like acid hit the back of Ryou's throat. _On our watch. Oh G—we weren't here. Bakura will know._

"I'm not lying to you, sir," Mana was snapping at the scowling demon, "and if you had any guts at all, you. . ." _Bakura will know. Bakura will think I—_

"Ryou?" They were staring at him.

"At least the castle is still standing, eh, Mana?" he managed, and, Sorcha and chest pains entirely forgotten, he was elbowing his way through the throng at a dead run. He made it to the door in record time and felt his whole being contract with fear as it swung open easily, without the slightest creak; then he was inside.

The castle was dark and quiet and, oddly, shrouded in mist. He stepped into it, breathing heavily, and the mist threaded through his hair and pressed against his skin, tasting him as he tasted it, cold and ancient and foreign. Almost blinded, eyes full of white, he stumbled forward and caught snatches of sound, whipping past him as though he was standing on the deck of a ship during a ten-force gale.

"Battle mad!" roared against one ear. "Shaadi!" came another, watery and feeble, and a weird, soft hum: "Shaitan's own Shaada?"

"Who's there?" said Ryou loudly, stretching his hands out into the fog, grasping at the air. By now he had to be in the dance room, he knew. Had Mana followed him? Was she somewhere behind him; could she see?

Glass crunched underfoot. "Who's there?" he said again, this time in a shout. The mist around him was growing brighter and brighter, illuminated by a sun he couldn't see.

"Where in Shaitan's name. . .!" A woman.

Another crunch—this one, for some reason, striking him as heralding something far more dangerous than broken glass. Warily, he crouched back—

A single heavy pulse tore through him; magic so tangible he could see it as it exploded before his eyes. He didn't—_couldn't_—dodge it, couldn't summon the breath to scream as the rush hit him, actually lifting him, and then blasted through, drowning his senses in _gold._

The light that came was so intense it seemed to burn. As the glare faded he became aware of the hand that had fallen limply atop his foot—a long, spidery hand, so pale and bloodless as to be white.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

The bread was thickly sliced and sweet, more like cake than anything, pitted with tangy pieces of fruit. As Jou chewed but didn't swallow—Otogi had warned him not to—he had the weird sensation that he was holding nothing more than cloth in his hands, spun of gossamer threads, and that he had just taken a bite of something as light and insubstantial as air. The green-haired demon who had brought it to them, artfully arranged on a heavy silver plate, introduced himself as Croquet. Jou chewed with gusto, grinned and nodded, and looked around for a napkin to spit into.

Kaiba was watching him, bread barely touched. As Jou caught his eye, he gave an imperceptible shake of his head. Jou looked back to his plate and stuffed some more in, cheeks bulging.

_"Why can't I eat anything?" he asked Otogi, unease filtering through his body. "Poisoned, d'you think?"_

_"Not for us," Kaiba answered, arms and legs loosely folded and crossed, looking perfectly at ease in a strange room high at the top of a tower. "Angelics. Our food can destroy them—bring on illness, break down their powers. No doubt Pegasus wants to be certain—angelic legions are roaming the country, and, for all he knows, I've been dead for months. But an angelic wouldn't be stupid enough to fall into a trap like this. . ."_

_"Well, why can't I eat, then?" said Jou, somewhat petulantly. "I'm one hundred percent human. Hungry human." He thought that had been particularly witty._

_"That's the thing," said Otogi. "You might not be. Humans get awfully mixed. He—" and he jerked his finger at Kaiba "—doesn't call you a mutt just because he's a callous, vindictive bastard with a frozen stick up his ass, you know."_

_Kaiba twitched. Otogi went blithely on. "And it's doubly risky for you because you're a scruffy blond who might actually be pretty under all the dirt and grime, and Pegasus has a—" now he lowered his voice "—a _thing_—for types like you. A _thing_. We're just watching out for you. Really." Jou opened his mouth to protest but Otogi waved a hand, stalling him, and continued. "I'm not going to eat anything, either. So don't pout."_

_"You never eat," muttered Jou._

_"And you, Kaiba-boy?" whispered Otogi, fixing his gleaming eyes on the demon. "Are you going to eat?"_

Kaiba had touched nothing. Jaw clenched tight, he sat silent and seemed to be contemplating the platters of bread. Croquet eyed him suspiciously, and Jou blurted, "He has a—a gluten allergy."

Kaiba blinked and gave Jou a look that said, _You have used an uncommon word; I would be surprised but I think that you do not know what it means. All remains well with the world. _Kaiba could say a lot with his eyebrows.

"There's no need," said the man standing in the doorway. His hair was straight and silver and fell just past his shoulders; it had been cut to fit around the shoulder pads of his maroon double-breasted suit. His voice was saccharine-sweet, with a hint of greasy asshole, and irritated Jou immediately. The man drew an elegant hand from his pocket and beckoned to Kaiba, and that was when Jou realized, incongruously, that _holy shit this guy is missing an eye._ "Really, Croquet. I'm sure our esteemed visitor has seen right through our silly little test. Welcome, Kaiba-boy. I can vouch for your demonic origins, I'm sure, even if last I heard you'd been dead and burned and had your ashes scattered. We can speak in my office."

Suddenly, Kaiba said, "They come too," and nodded at Jou and Otogi. He pushed his chair back with a scraping noise and stood.

The silver-haired man looked intrigued. "Certainly, dear boy," he murmured. "Of course."

_Well, shit,_ thought Jou in bewilderment, rising with Otogi's arm firmly around his hips again and following the demons out of the kitchen. _Doomsday already._

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

_The balcony door had been bolted and spelled shut against the cold, drifting in with the sea winds. Mana sat with her back to the warmed glass, watching curiously as her master rummaged through his desk drawers, tossing papers into the air. "Blast," muttered Mahaado, pushing aside a rather large pile of books. "Just a minute, Mana; I know it's here somewhere."_

_"Mm," she said, drawing her knees to her chest. Mahaado's lashes were long and blue. He wasn't bad-looking at all, had a very nice, Classical profile, in fact, and was so warm and kind and absolutely brilliant when it came to spells._

_"Ha!" he snapped under his breath, opening a massive book and pulling a slip of paper from within its pages. "Thought you could hide from me, did you? Rogue." The scrap was yellowing and oddly textured; the lamplight caught on its raises and bumps and slicked color across the oily blue seal that clung to its rough surface. "Here." He crossed the room in seconds; she saw the billowing of his robes and then he was squatting in front of her, eyes level with her own._

_"This, sweetheart," he told her, "is very important." He pressed it into her hands. "If anything should happen to me—no, listen to me. If anything should happen to me and you cannot return to your parents, I want you to take the children and go into the city. Be careful when you do it. The address is written on the back of this paper, but that's not what matters. Are you listening?"_

_She nodded, wide eyes fixed on his mouth. "I want you to find a demon named Bakura. You will give him this scrap and you will ask to apprentice with him. He knows runes like no other. Second only to Sugoroku."_

_"Just like that?" she asked. "No interviews, no test?"_

_Mahaado's mouth slid into a smile that did not exactly reach his eyes. "No," he said. "He will take you on without questions. He owes me a great debt, you see."_

_"And if he doesn't live here anymore?" She did not ask, _and if he's dead?

_The smile slipped. "Then you must find him," said Mahaado. "Go as safely as you can, but you must find him. Now," and he touched her cheek, "keep that paper close to you at all times. You've only to show it to him."_

Mana could still feel the smooth blue wax under her fingers, even now. A seeking spell was all it had taken; Bakura had been living in an apartment castle at the time and had taken it from the trembling hand of the bloodied, sobbing girl standing on his fire escape—indeed as Mahaado had said—without any questions. What he'd done with the paper she didn't know, but without questions she'd been living with him since.

Ryou had gotten the strangest look on his face and taken off through the crowd, and now this weird glowing mist. She was chanting low under her breath, a spell to dissolve the moisture. _Ah, the perks of living with Bakura. I wonder what's happened now. _She wasn't too worried. Even with the castle in such a state lately, intruders would get quite a shock when they entered unbidden. The fog might even be one of Bakura's more ridiculous traps, one he hadn't told her about or had just created.

_He's in no shape to be inventing these things_. Ryou had probably blundered into the thick of it, too. She'd find them both and sort it out. Mahaado's book was heavy in her apron pocket, filling her with confidence.

A howl split the air, shattering all the inner peace she'd managed to attain in the past ten minutes.

"What is he doin—_gnnh!"_

The explosion—soundless, all color and light—knocked her off her feet with a grunt of shock. "Shaitan on a _pogo stick_," she hissed as she picked herself up. Pain and unease warred inside her ribcage; she threw off her cloak and began to run.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

For a heartbeat Ryou stared blankly at the hand that lay across his foot—just brushing the skin over the felt sandals Mana had given him. Not a thought registered. _Oh, _he whispered to himself. _Oh._

Bakura sprawled on his side, legs bent tight under his body, one hand drawn to his mouth, the other flung aside with the force of his coughing. Livid red bruises burned at his chest and mouth. He was fighting for breath.

"Oh," said Ryou aloud, in a rasp. He realized his own body was alive with agony, every nerve vibrating with white-hot pain.

Harsh panting swarmed into hearing; he looked up and saw a strange dark man staring at him. Sweeping linen robes and blood running down his chin and huge gold loops in his dark, dark ears, and that glimmer of gold drew Ryou's eyes away and up the arms of the woman beside him, slim and tall and just as shocked as her companion. She stood atop red powder and glistening jeweled fragments and her own eyes gleamed gem-bright and blue, taking him in.

"It's you," she said, and her voice was raw and familiar, but Ryou didn't care to place it—_Bakura was lying at his feet. Shaitan, _said the woman who wore gold so tastefully, _Shaitan below it's you; Ryou, the soul—_

He knelt and Bakura's twitching hand rolled from his foot and fell to the floor. _Thump._

"What did you do to him?" he said. "Who are you?" And there it was, simple as day. Bakura's hand slid easily into his, fever-hot, and he clutched at it and felt the knuckles under his thumb, felt skin on skin and no threat of absorption, no _closer_—just Bakura's hand in his and Bakura's fingers lacing with his fingers and the rune came from somewhere deep in hisBakura's brain, through their Hand, came like breathing—

_gold_

—Get out, he said. "If you don't I'll kill you."

Bakura had stopped coughing. He breathed in shallow pants, staring at Ryou in a daze.

The dark man stepped forward—there was a small crater around the shield he'd raised—with his hands held carefully where Ryou could see them. "Listen to me," he said. "We don't mean to fight you. I—"

"Ryou," interrupted the woman, like a bell, and Ryou's eyes snapped to her. Bakura's hand pulsed _coldhot _against his own: _coldhot, coldhot, coldhot._ "Ryou is your name, isn't it? We met in the marketplace weeks ago. It's Lady Ishtal; we spoke about my brother." Her lips were white. She was so very beautiful when we met, remembered Ryou—outshining the mermaids all. Madness swirled at the edges of his mind, kept at bay only by the pain that shivered up and down his arms and legs. _I'm here, Bakura; I didn't leave you. _He bit fiercely at the inside of his mouth.

"Do you know me?" said the woman, and he was cut loose, hurtling into blackness.

"Yes," said Ryou, tasting blood on his tongue. "Yes, I know you."

He wasn't sure when Mana reached them. He looked at the translucent skin stretched tight over Bakura's sunken eyes, now closed, at the bones in the shoulders and the bumps of the spine. There was no voice now, only the want to soothe and comfort and hold. Dimly he realized he was sobbing, but did not care; he stretched out his arms and gathered Bakura into them, into him, and would hear no more.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

_Mahaado had never appreciated snoops—but he supported research in all its forms, and, as he touched a hand to his apprentice's sweat-slicked forehead, he thought to himself this sort of dream-voyeurism was surely one of those various forms, entirely sanctioned and appropriate. Certainly Sugoroku would have approved. He was only getting to know his pupil better—really, that's all it was._

_He broke through his pupil's barriers—they were strong, but not strong enough—and was at once engulfed in flames. Fire licked at his feet and burst around him, filling his ears with the sound of crackling and his nostrils with the smell of burning flesh. Though heat roared all around him he could feel nothing but cold: his worst fears had been confirmed; he was in Elna._

_There were no screams—how could there be?—for all were dead, magic eaten by Shaitan's sorcerers. The worst of the violence had passed and fire was consuming the bodies that lay scattered where they had fallen, nothing more than husks now that the power behind them had been siphoned laboriously away. Mahaado knew the process. He had helped to develop the theory._

_No sounds but those of the fires, set by Shaitan's magicians, and the erratic breathing of the five who had survived—two who would be dead by sunset, supplied the mind he had invaded._

_Madar was dead. Her body was burning; the straw thatch from the roof above had fallen on her where she lay and ignited immediately when the fire spells were cast. Odion was dying, choking in the smoke; a sword had caught him deeply across the chest and blood bubbled across his lips with every gasp. The woman who brought her husband's fish to market every day lay decapitated across her pots, her daughter carved open beside her—these horrors and more filled his eyes; the haze strangled him. _

Run far, _Moshe had screamed._ It's not you they want. _Yes, Mahaado thought—it was not a child's magic, slight, undeveloped and unskilled, that Shaitan's magicians desired. _Go!

_He dug deeper—_

_A hand clamped down on his wrist, dragging him from the dream. "Ah," said Mahaado hoarsely, starting. He'd been careless._

_"I'll ask you not to pry," murmured Bekhara, voice sleep-rough. In the torchlight his face was wet with sweat; the hand that held Mahaado's wrist had begun, every so faintly, to shake._

_"I'm sorry," Mahaado said and simultaneously let a spell for sleep echo in his mind, powerful enough to overwhelm whatever defenses his apprentice had put in place. As the hand loosened and fell away, he drew his arm back to his side and sat rubbing it._

_The next time he looked he would have to be more cautious—that was all._

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Though she had reacted at first to the fog-induced blindness with panic, Isis was fast regaining control of the situation. The magic was old but the idea basic, and she was ashamed to admit that the haze had done exactly what it was supposed to do—make her lose her head. But she'd found it again, and she was chanting dispelling words in a low murmur, so quickly the spells seemed to run into one another. Lights rose and the fog dimmed—

—enough for her to see two blurred shapes leaping forward and back, arms snapping and gestures grown unnaturally large: shadow puppets. The taller one—Shaadi—lurched backward; he'd evidently been hit. Bakura was in no hurry to follow, taking a winding path—vanishing in and out of the patches of fog. His power was immense, disturbing in its scale. Where and when had he grown so strong?

_Dying, indeed,_ she thought with a scowl. _Dying my foot!_

Surely there had to be a source! She believed what Marikku had told her, and unless Bakura had been putting up some sort of elaborate act (which she wouldn't put past him, but rather doubted given Marikku's tearful testimony), something was fueling his insane strength. She took a step forward and focused, honing in on a pulse that she could feel rather than see. Somewhere ahead of her, Shaadi gave a grunt of pain. _Better hurry before Bakura kills him. . .!_

She found the epicenter seconds later—a round disc hovering in front of Bakura's chest. _An amulet or implant of sorts. Whatever it is, remove it!_

She lunged forward—Shaadi seemed to have had the same idea; his arm came knocking up against Bakura's back, snatched and withdrew empty-handed—and slammed her hand against Bakura's breastbone, grasping the hot metal immediately and jerking it from him. The chain broke and small links tinkled to the floor; Bakura let out a terrible cry.

She didn't wait to see if she'd accomplished anything. She flung the disc to the floor and stepped on it, chants pitched to give her foot all the weight of a block of concrete.

The item, whatever it was, shattered on contact, as did many of the beads in her hair. Like he'd been pinned to a wall and suddenly, unexpectedly, come loose, Bakura gave a single seismic tremble—Isis danced back, wary of further explosions—and fell to the floor in a heap. A minute passed, then another—Bakura gasped and curled convulsively in on himself, then began to cough.

"Shaitan," said Shaadi, limping up to stand beside her. They surveyed the demon before them in silence. "Thank you," said Shaadi, after a long moment.

"I told you not to attack him," muttered Isis.

Shaadi grimaced. "Now wait a moment. _I _said—who's that?"

Isis followed his stare over her shoulder. For a moment she thought that Bakura had somehow removed his body from where it lay on the floor, or that it had all been a trick, a trap—for there he was standing in the doorway. Then she saw that the eyes of this demon were green and his face much softer, rounder, and that he wasn't a demon at all—a slip of a boy, a _soul_, and a familiar one, at that.

_Mai was on her break and Isis had been forced to halt her frantic search; one couldn't badger the auctioneer if the auctioneer was nonexistent—and at any rate, she doubted she'd have any chance of locating Malik this way. She had been watching the exchange between the boy and the fisherman for several minutes now; she was sure she had not heard wrong._

_"You're looking for the demon auctioneer?" she said, and the boy jumped. "Whatever for, might I ask?"_

_The boy looked to be in his late teens, of average stature with a thin, girlish face and shocks of white hair grown long down his back. He spun for a moment in the crowd and found her, and she was drawn by the green of his eyes, so vivid as to be fey and not human. But humans were a mixed breed; there were hardly any pure ones to be found these days. "Isis Ishtal," she told him, as he continued to stare. "I am of the demonic caste."_

_Those extraordinarily green eyes widened. "Bakura Ryou," he said softly, surprising her with the low bow appropriate in such a situation. Perhaps he had been schooled in the arcane. "And—yes—I'm looking for the demon auctioneer. I have business with him."_

Not so informed after all_, thought Isis, with some amusement. "I do believe _she_ is on a lunch break at the moment. But I'll be glad to lead you to _her_ stall, and we will let _her_ deal with you."_

_The boy blushed. "I'm sorry. I didn't know the demonic caste had female auctioneers."_

_Here Isis had to frown. She and Mai were hardly friends and she held the entire slaving system in some contempt. "We don't, normally," said Isis. "But as you may have heard, the underworld is in utter turmoil. What little law we have at the moment is pockmarked with loopholes. Our kind does what it can to survive; female auctioneers will suffice until order is restored. Come along."_

_Eyes still wide, he followed her without another word._

_Yes_, she thought. There could be no doubt that this was the same boy. "It's you," she whispered, and Shaadi glanced at her sharply. "Shaitan below, it's you." How had this boy come to be here, at this moment—

"What did you do to him?" said the boy, face oddly vacant. "Who are you?"

Isis watched, spellbound, as the boy—Ryou—_Bakura _Ryou—knelt beside his demonic look-alike, smoothing the crumpled robes, reaching for a limp, bone-thin hand and clutching it close. A bauble near her left ear burst and sprayed hot glass across her cheek—Shaadi yelled and snatched at her, catching her close—those green eyes had grown wide and terrible—

Shaadi had spun the shield just in time. Isis leant him power, leaning into him, as the ground splintered and shattered around their feet and _thank Shaitan_ the shield held, though barely.

"Get out," breathed Ryou. "If you don't I'll kill you." _I don't doubt it,_ thought Isis, grasping the wards where the blast had weakened them and forming the strands into steel.

Shaadi moved forward, hands held out, voice soothing. "Listen to me," he said, in almost a croon, though Isis knew he was frantic, curiosity burning through him as it burned through her. _When—how! _"We don't mean to fight. . ."

Isis could see the green eyes opening bright and hostile once more. "Ryou!" she said, interrupting Shaadi, and felt a warm pull of relief as the eyes turned on her, waiting. "Ryou is your name, isn't it? We met in the marketplace—weeks ago." _Shaitan, what horrible power. Was it Bakura's? Was it his own? I never even sensed—!_ "Do you know me?"

When the boy spoke again it was with a voice like a thousand rushes whispering in the darkness; she shivered. "Yes," he said. "Yes, I know you."

Footsteps pounded behind her. "Lady Isis, what—oh, Shaitan! Ryou!"

Kismet's Mana, long golden hair bound haphazardly into place, just as pale as Isis remembered her, twisted her fingers into a warped circle and leapt through the shield, going directly to the boy hunched on the floor and throwing her arms around him. Ryou was sobbing—in a desperate, strangling way, eyes so empty Isis would have thought him in a trance had his entire body not been shaking with the force of his crying. "It's all right," Isis heard Mana murmur, low and urgent. "Ryou—Ryou. It's all right."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

_Maximilian Pegasus is one hell of a rich bastard_ was Jou's first thought as they stepped into the guy's "humble abode"—which of course was anything but. Okay, the room was neatly decorated—not that Jou knew that much about interior design—and evidence of wealth was not spread wastefully on numerous gold, gaudy objects but rather on lavish, maroon leather furniture, gleaming floor, expensive-looking quills and of course the ridiculously well-tailored suit. Pegasus did not slide behind his desk, but rather pulled up a chair in front of them and set himself carefully into it, steepling his fingertips as he regarded them. Jou sank into the offered sofa beside Otogi; his sweaty palms squeaked against the leather. He gulped.

Kaiba took his seat with far more grace, crossing and folding the appropriate parts of his body and setting his briefcase by his side. "I'll make it short," he said.

"Oh, no need," said Pegasus, with a strange slow smile.

"I've come to seek your support," said Kaiba without preamble, ignoring him. "I realize that you have placed a claim on the throne. I tell you that throne is mine through blood, but I will not argue the point. What I want, Mister Pegasus—" he gave the _Mister_ an odd emphasis "—is money and allies. Demons of your circle who want the current order overthrown no matter what. The public will not support a demon who is not blood-related to Shaitan, no matter how unpopular He was. You know it as the present Council knows it. So I offer myself to be your voice; the masses will accept me where they accept no other. I will make you lords. I will rewrite the law to suit your purposes and the interests of your merchant brethren. What do you say?"

_Whoa,_ thought Jou, gaping.

"I say you're a tricky one," said Pegasus softly. "And how many demon lords have you gone through before you came to me, Kaiba-boy?"

"Oh, several," interjected Otogi airily, and Pegasus' dark eyes flickered to him. "But they were all idiots; they'd have none of it. I think it's a good plan, if my opinion helps you at all."

Kaiba was looking as though he thought Otogi's opinion would be of no help whatsoever, least of all to his cause. He was looking as though he wanted to strangle Otogi right then and there, in fact, or at least strike him down and bruise him badly. "I admit that they were reluctant to offer me allegiance," said Kaiba. "But I've no credence with them—like you. Like you," he continued, going in for the kill, "I've been scorned and tossed aside. You're newly rich? I'm new power. I'm untested. We are almost the same; I trust your experience and hope you will trust my word. Join me, Pegasus."

"Who are you?" said Pegasus to Jou, turning that frightening smile on him. Jou restrained a shudder and didn't know what to say. _Has a thing—a _thingechoed Otogi's cooed warning in his head.

"That's Katsuya," said Otogi, slipping into the conversation with a voice like melting butter. "He's something of a dimwit. Dropped on his head as a baby; very sad, really."

Jou opened his mouth to protest this, but the sudden green spark in Otogi's eye cut him short.

"Hmm, was he, now? How absolutely awful. And you would be. . .?" Pegasus turned to Otogi, who grinned wide, fangs slipping over his lower lip, gone mysteriously plump and pink in a matter of seconds—some kind of weird vampire trick, Jou supposed.

"Otogibanashi," he replied, with a half-lidded, oozing look at Pegasus that made Jou's toes curl and his heart give a single hard thump. _Sweet fuck, you have got to be kidding me. This isn't happening. _"My lord."

"Oh?" said Pegasus, returning the look, and Jou thought that he didn't like where this was going—not one bit.

Evidently Kaiba didn't either. "What do you say, Pegasus?" he said again, this time with a sword-sharp edge to his voice.

"I think I'll consider it," said Pegasus. "Shimon is returning tomorrow with his trading fleet and he brings with him six others in the merchant circle. Until then, dear Kaiba-boy, I'm afraid I shall have to withhold my answer."

"Oh, no," murmured Otogi, with a laugh that made Jou squirm. "Surely you're joking? I'll tell you what—and I'm sure Master Kaiba won't mind—the nights are so boring, particularly as I'm never able to, hmmm, sleep. Let's throw me in, shall we? To sweeten the, ah, deal?"

Pegasus' silver eyebrow, the one not covered by his brocade eye-patch, went into his hair. Then he began to smile again.

"You've a crafty one in your pay, Kaiba-boy," he said, chuckling.

"Your answer, Mister Pegasus?" was all Kaiba said.

"I've just lost a soul-slave, you know," Pegasus told Otogi. "He was quite pretty, a rowdy one. Somehow he conjured up a mirror image of himself and escaped, or so Croquet tells me. A very lovely blonde."

"Yes," said Otogi, so quietly that Jou was sure only he could hear him. "I'm well aware."

"Very well; I accept," said Pegasus, and Jou felt his rolling stomach drop to his feet as Otogi just _beamed_, weird and soppy, at the guy. "Now, Kaiba-boy, I expect you tomorrow to draw up documents. I'm a business demon, you see; it pays to be quite sure what one is getting oneself into. I'm sure you agree."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

They left Otogi in the sitting room, leaning forward to add to some point or another that Pegasus had just made. His voice rose high and fluting and excited, in a childish way made Jou feel vaguely nauseous. They did not speak as Croquet escorted them to the door of the castle, opening it with a minimal bow and adding that Master Pegasus would appreciate their presence at a gathering in one day's time, precisely at sunset. Jou had imagined that Kaiba was planning something—maybe a way to trick Croquet, beat Pegasus up and snatch Otogi back—or at least that he might be able to break away and get the stupid bloodsucker, but Kaiba kept a firm hold of his elbow until they were past the threshold.

"That's it?" exclaimed Jou, as Kaiba stepped out without a backward glance and the door shut behind him. "We're just—just going to _leave_ him?"

"Otogi knows what he's gotten himself into," said Kaiba.

Jou leapt forward to block the demon as he made to continue down the path. "I don't think he does," he snarled. "You're just going along with this because—because it helps you cut a fucking deal!"

"Very astute," snapped Kaiba. "Keep your voice down or I'll do it for you. Now _move._"

_I'll be your dog, okay? Your mutt. Loyal dog of the military._ Jou was regretting his words now, as it seemed that they had actually bound him to some extent to another damned contract—at Kaiba's command he felt his legs moving forward; numb, he watched as he pushed himself through the gate and heard, like a knell somewhere within himself, the clang of the metal as it slammed closed.

"Move," said Kaiba roughly, and Jou followed. For a moment he thought he heard Otogi scrabbling to catch up behind him; he glanced back and saw it was nothing—a stray dog rounding the corner, snuffling at the dirt.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Ryou hovered uncertainly at the kitchen table, gauze held in both hands. His legs were trembling beneath him. Bakura was outside with his head in Mana's lap, body contorted every few minutes by the coughing that had yet to subside. Ryou looked back at the gauze. Mana hadn't said how much—

_At some point—Ryou wasn't sure when; he'd lost track of time entirely—he became aware that Mana's arms were no longer around him. He looked up and saw that Isis had gone, as had her companion. Then Mana was exiting the kitchen, a tangle of bandages draped across her shoulders, pushing past him and wresting Bakura's hand from his mouth. Ryou cried out as he saw it come away, wet with blood. _

_"Where were you?" said Bakura weakly to Mana. "They got in without a struggle."_

_"Are you all right, sir?" said Mana. "Can you sit up?"_

_"Perf—perfectly all right," said Bakura. He pushed himself up to his elbows and gagged; eyes wide with shock he turned from them and spat a mess of blood onto the floor. "I may have had a rib broken. Or three. It's fine," he added, as Mana made to examine him. "I need a moment, that's all."_

_She rocked back on her heels. Ryou knelt nearby, fists clenched. What could he do? Bakura seemed to look through him as he glanced about, surveying the damage done to his dance-room._

_Bakura's eyes were dark. "I thought I told you under no circumstances remove him from th—"_

_"Ryou!" said Mana, and Ryou jerked and fell back, staring at her dumbly. She made a vague gesture to the left. "Go into the kitchen, will you? I left the gauze."_

_He got to his feet with a creak. As he pushed the door open and slipped inside, Mana's voice drifted back to him: "We were looking for knobs for the cabinets. There wasn't any danger. Imagine if I had left him and Lady I—the intruders—had come then? They might have taken. . .and then what. . .have done. . .?"_

"Gauze," muttered Ryou, gazing unseeingly at his hands. Bakura had been lying at his feet—unable to breathe—that _gold_—

It occurred to him that someone was calling his name. When he glanced up he saw that Bakura had managed to stand and was waiting just inside the kitchen, leaning on the wall with his arms loosely crossed. The demon's gaze seemed to knock him backward several paces; he grabbed hold of the table to steady himself.

Bakura's voice was impatient. "Ryou. Come outside with me for a moment. Don't fret," he added sharply, when Ryou only gaped at him and did not move. "I won't eat you."

Ryou remembered the gold that had swallowed his vision and the irresistible pull that had brought them together in the stairwell and thought,_ That's not at all what I'm worried about—that's not even close, Bakura._

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

In the suffocating heat of Vladmir's worst hotel room, Jou found sleep only after a considerably amount of tossing and turning, and even then, the slightest noise—like the scrabbling at the window—was enough to wake him. It had to be well past midnight. With a feeble moan he rolled onto his stomach, squashing his face into the pillow, then jolted upright as a series of curses filtered through the night air.

"Fuck, fuck, _ow,_" snapped Otogi, tumbling in through the window and managing, absurdly, to land on his feet. He was out the door in a heartbeat, leaving Jou to blink at the ceiling and wonder if he'd hallucinated or dreamt the whole thing.

He decided seeing was believing and crept out of bed, wincing as the springs gave a loud shriek of protest.

Otogi had waltzed to the end of the hall and stopped, and Jou was about to go out—_to do what,_ whispered that traitorous part of his brain, _say hi? Hello, let's have a kiss, come to bed with me?_—when he noticed whose door Otogi had been slamming his fist into, and thought it might be wiser to just stay put.

There was a click and Kaiba stood at the threshold of his room, coatless, shirt tucked neatly into pants, mouth agape. "What?" spluttered the ice demon, looking for the first time entirely at a loss. (Jou sniggered.) "What are you doing here? Go—go back! You made a deal!"

"Didn't sign a contract," said Otogi languidly.

"Do you not understand the necessary elements of a business deal?" snarled Kaiba. "You keep your end of the bargain! You—you—_why_ would you—"

"It's dull over there, you know?" said Otogi. "That berserker servant of his was snoring something awful. Thought I'd pop out here, say goodnight. Pegsy will understand that I've got my priorities straight as they can be and this may even convince him to hire better guards for his harem. . .ish. . .thing. He may need a new south wall, though. Yeah?"

Kaiba looked apoplectic. "_Go back at once,_" he hissed.

"Nope," said Otogi cheerily. "I won't. And you can fight me if you'd like, Kaiba, but I don't think you'd do that—would send the hotel manager up here at once, it would. I'm bushed. Where's Katsuya-_kun_ sleeping on this night of most unholy heat?"

"Yes," said Kaiba, seizing on it and looking _really _nasty for a moment. "It's the room that way—I suppose he knew you were coming back; I suppose he's sitting up with his legs apart, just the way you've trained him."

_Asshole! _Jou clutched at the doorframe.

Otogi was silent a moment. "That's where I normally sleep, that's all," he said at length. "And it's you he likes, you know. Likes you so very much. It's Stockholm is what it is. I told him to get out while he could but you've got him absolutely under your finger. I hope you realize that."

Kaiba sneered. "Sure. And you, vampire? You must be suffering from the same; it seems you can't stay away."

Otogi's smile was quiet; then he laughed. "Admit it," he said, grinning crookedly. "Someone has to take care of the two of you numbskulls." And suddenly he had an arm around Kaiba's neck and was dragging the demon's head down with his ridiculous strength to meet his dry dead mouth.

_Sweet fuck_, thought Jou, swallowing hard

Kaiba did not move away. His throat bobbed once, convulsively, and his hands went to Otogi's hips. Jou watched for a minute longer, breath grown heavy, then shut the door and went back to bed. He was too thunderstruck to feel betrayed, he thought, and then he realized that he'd been expecting this in some paranoid corner of his mind, ever since Otogi had admitted, _Yeah, I like him, _because Otogi was slick like that—he'd gotten Jou to say yes, after all, hadn't he?Jou threw the covers over his head and sweated in the heat and the dark, imagining for a single glorious moment that someone had crushed his head with the usual falling grand piano or anvil and ended it all.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Yami had hunted in the forest beyond Dahlia once before in his childhood, but the night-dark trees were an ominous change from the sunny clearings and meadows he remembered. He did not know the way, relying instead on a combination of memory and magical senses—these things told him that though a portal might not lie nearby, a patch of land that would allow conjuring on such a large scale did.

Yuugi was small and nervous by his side. Even after the—It—he seemed afraid of the blackness that now became him and kept close to Yami, fingers tucked through and holding fast to a belt-loop at Yami's hip.

"It's not much further now," said Yami, to reassure them both.

Yuugi's murmured agreement was lost in the crunch-crunch of their footfalls across the leaves.

_I want to fly,_ thought Yami. _Bless these trees._ The branches had grown close together and in some cases knitted seamlessly into a single broad, leafy net, breaking all thoughts of flight—though they did provide some defense against aerial attacks. But walking—almost running, as they were—was slow. Running gave Shaadi enough time to find them and capture them—kill them, even.

"When we leave," said Yami breathlessly, because Yuugi's hand had found his and was shaking, "when we make it to the mundane lands—we'll have a—an apartment, or a house and I'll make it safe for you, Yuugi—no one will be able to find us—I'll spin it so they even _forget _us—believe it—"

He babbled on. "I'll fill it with everything you could think of—books and cakes and—"

_Your parents were like children,_ said Shaadi's voice, slicing through his mind. _They had no thought for anything else but pleasure; your father sacrificed thousands all for the sake of her and she ran from her duties. They didn't _think. _They abandoned their people—_

His foot caught unexpectedly on a protruding root; he stumbled forward and fell into the loam, and Yuugi fell with him.

_—abandoned you. Do you wonder why it was Akhenaden who taught you all the magic you know now? Do you wonder how this chaos that surrounds you came to be? I'll tell you it wasn't an overnight affair, my liege—these seeds were sown long ago, with your parents' neglect! You are by blood Shaitan, but you, too, abandon your duties. . .dozens encroach on your throne but you have no care for it, no thought for the hundreds of thousands of lives that have been entrusted to you. . ._

He lay there panting for so long that Yuugi at last stirred and said, hesitantly, "_Hae?_"

"I have. . .no obligation to this land," said Yami quietly, brokenly. "Isn't that right, Yuugi? They cast me aside long ago. . .tried to kill me. . .take you from me. These people are not mine."

Yuugi whispered something in angelic, something slow and sweet that stirred deep in Yami's brain. _Leave all for love._

"No," said Yami, just as slowly. He caught Yuugi around his thin shoulders and pulled him close, tight enough that Yuugi squeaked a bit. Yami buried his face against sweet-smelling skin and said, "Yuugi—"

"I Fell," said Yuugi, accusation tinny in his voice. "For you, _Hae_—I did it."

"No—no! That's not—not what I mean," said Yami desperately. "Yuugi! I'll come with you—I _want _to come with you—I'll give you that house, all that you want, but—_please_, Yuugi. This is something that should have been done twenty years ago—I'll take responsibility where my parents couldn't. If we leave now, Yuugi, there's no telling if this mess will stay where it is or spill into all three worlds. We have a chance to fix it—_I _do—let me. Please.

"Shaadi won't—" he faltered "—won't kill us. He'll help us. He'll hide us away when the time comes. We have to go back."

Yuugi lay silent beside him.

"Please," said Yami, cupping the round face with both hands, pressing their foreheads together. "This is what's right."

_These are _your_ people, _said Shaadi relentlessly in his ears. _They wait for you to lead them from this madness. For _Shaitan. "Please."

"Dahlia, then?" said Yuugi faintly.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Isis closed the door quietly behind her, nearly falling over the doorstep as she did so. She felt heartsick, exhausted—

Marikku was sitting cross-legged at the end of the hall. He flew at her as soon as she entered. "Isis! You went to see Bakura without telling m—" He saw the blood on her cheek and neck and his eyes grew wide. "You're hurt!"

"Just a scratch," she told him wearily, and collapsed into the nearest divan, giving a long sigh.

"What happened?" he demanded, and she waved him off with a limp hand.

"Later," she said. "Let me be, Marikku; I'm tired."

She closed her eyes. Faces swarmed under her eyelids—most prominently the boy's, and then Kismet's Mana, who matched Mahaado's descriptions freckle for freckle, every strand of hair exactly as he'd said. Mana had known her immediately—had no doubt seen her entering ANKH before with Marikku, or remembered her from Mahaado's recollections. Beneath the girl's surprise, Isis had sensed nothing but accusation—even loathing.

_It's no use, Mahaado,_ she'd told him, unable to meet his horrorstruck stare. _I wanted to warn you—give you enough time to set your affairs in order. If you try to prevent it I will help you. But there's no stopping it, I don't think. Live normally until the time comes—_

_But Mana?_ he'd whispered.

_"I can look after her—"_

_"No, Isis," he said. "I wouldn't ask you. You've got your hands full as it is. How much time until I—?"_

Perhaps Mahaado had told his apprentice which seeress had predicted his death. Perhaps it was fear she'd seen and misinterpreted in Mana's gaze. The girl had been quite civil, though—_asked_ them to leave very politely, though for all she knew (and it was true) they had just attacked her master.

_"I must speak with your master," said Shaadi, lingering in the doorway._

_Bakura stirred. He said something—low, hissed words that evaded Isis' ears. Shaadi seemed to blanch. He gave a stiff bow. "I'm sorry we sprang upon you in such a manner," he said. "But I must speak with you. It—it concerns a good many things, Gozaburo among them—"_

_Quietly, Isis took a handmirror from her pocket and gave it to Mana, who accepted it wordlessly. "I would speak with your master, too—on Marikku's behalf. Please give this to him."_

_"Get out," said Bakura, and they did._

_"What did he say to you?" said Isis, as they left the castle perimeter. "You've gone pale."_

_Shaadi's smile was bitter. "That was a dialect of the old tongue," he said. "He called me a murderer."_

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Jou dreamed. Kaiba wrapped around him, smooth and white as a milk snake, hands everywhere and nowhere at once. He groaned and recoiled from the touches, which brushed and rustled against his legs like scales. Otogi's laughter rang all around them, bright and delighted.

Kaiba kissed him and Jou found that the tongue flitting across his lips was forked, and he opened his eyes and saw that Kaiba's had gone eerily yellow, the tongue flickering—

There was the boy standing beside him, gray eyes and gray hair solidifying and darkening into something more like black and purple—sharp eyes like Kaiba's. _'Nii-sama, _said the boy in a voice like a scream, and Otogi echoed that scream and Kaiba's forked tongue rasped down Jou's neck. _'Nii-sama._

"We'll find you," Jou told the boy. "We'll definitely find you—definitely."

"Who are you?" asked the boy, coming completely into focus. "Why can't I talk to 'Nii-sama—why is it always you?"

"Are you dead?" said Jou. He was kneeling in front of the kid like some kind of knight about to kiss the hand of a king, or something. Otogi's laughter still sounded, distant and disturbing. It was almost maniac now—hysterical and gasping. "Where are you? Where can we find you?"

"I don't know this place," said the boy uncertainly, glancing at the weird haze that surrounded him. "It's only gray—and cold—'Nii-sama knows it; let me talk to 'Nii-sama! Why is it always you who—"

He gasped and was gone, and Kaiba's hands were moving again and Otogi, invisible, was drawing him up for a kiss. "Ah," said Jou raggedly: "Ah—_ah_—" and woke.

Dawn was filtering uneasily into the sky, a gray that caught him across the eyes as he sat up. There was no one in the room and the window was shut, no depression in the mattress next to him—no sign of Otogi anywhere.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Distorted by the warped glass of the mirror, Shaadi's irritation seemed all the more sharp. There were mirrors throughout the house, and this—the largest of all—sat in her chambers, hastily transported from Uster and stapled crudely into the wall.

"This is—I can't believe you've kept that from me. You saw how dangerous he was! We barely put him down, the two of us together! What else is there? What haven't you told me?"

"I've told you all I thought you needed to know, Shaadi," said Isis, trying and failing to keep frustration from her tone. "I'm not your ward, and, recently, it's been quite difficult to determine if you still work to guard Ishtal interests." _And he knows it's true, _she muttered to herself. _I've had no reason to trust him for months. He's tried to have my brother arrested and interrogated, for Shaitan's sake!_

Shaadi threw up his hands. "Blessit, I understand, Isis," he bit out. "You are a grown and capable woman. I know that. I have become more and more aware of it as every day passes. But I am in love with you. Desperately. Insanely. You have me by the throat. Forget the Ishtal family. Bless the family. It's for you. It's always been for you." He stopped shouting, abruptly, and looked away. Quietly: "Trust me. It's for you."

It was a long time before Isis spoke. "I know," she said, just as softly. "But the dynasty is mine to protect."

"Bless the dynasty," said Shaadi.

"Bless the—Shaadi!" she exploded. "Shaadi, it's not as though we've been bonded—I _don't_ hold your life in my hands; it's not like we're a g—"

She broke off, hands going to her mouth. "Golden pair." _Golden pair. Oh, Shaitan—that's it!_

"Isis?" Shaadi stepped closer, frowning. "What is it?"

"Shaadi—I'm sorry—we can fight later—I've just realized—" Distractedly she waved a hand and ended the connection. The mirror flickered twice and showed her her own frazzled image—broken glass in her hair, scabbing cut on her cheek, dazed eyes. She went to the window, absentmindedly picking at her lips. _Golden pair._

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Ryou sat with hands clasped together, trembling in the warmth of the night on the back step. There were demons standing there, too, watching them and ANKH with hope in their eyes, but Bakura in his cloak and hood, hidden by the darkness, paid them no mind. Ryou shook and waited.

At last Bakura stirred. "Mana says you came back on your own." His voice was quiet.

"I left on my own, too," said Ryou unsteadily.

"You're afraid to touch me?" said Bakura, after another terrible pause where Ryou sweated and shivered and clutched his knees to his chest.

Nervous laughter bubbled in his throat. "A little," said Ryou into his knees. He did not say, _My body wants to kill you. It wants so much to have you that it will kill you to do it—will destroy all that's left of you just to call your magic its own. _Then, his body rooted to the spot with fear, he asked, "What else has Mana told you?" For some reason he did not want Bakura to know what he was—would rather die than let him know.

"Whatever else she may have said was lost in the resounding thunderclap that came as she belted me across the mouth," said Bakura. "For the third time this week."

"I'm sorry," said Ryou.

Fabric rustled in the blackness; Bakura seemed to have shrugged. "She was angry."

Ryou could not turn his head; his jaws felt loose, wobbly. Relief hung in his joints—ready to surge forward at Bakura's reply and weaken his limbs, spin his head—or evaporate and leave him cold. "Are you angry with me?" he whispered, again into his legs. He could not look up. "For leaving?"

"Very much," said Bakura, like velvet against the lobe of Ryou's ear. "I want to beat you." He bit. "Black and blue."

Then, as Ryou's knees did indeed go weak with relief and he was about to sag sideways, into Bakura, the demon leaned closer and murmured, "What are you?"

Ice flooded his veins. "Wh-what?" he quavered, jolting backward.

"You can tell me, darling," said Bakura calmly, catching his wrists in a grip like iron. "What are you?" He pushed Ryou against the door and spoke into his ear. "Who made you?"

"No one—!" Bakura was unyielding at his back.

"No one? _I—felt—it—_" hissed Bakura. "You were stealing my magic. You aren't a soul. Who made you?"

"No one," gasped Ryou, thrashing. Bakura pressed against him, breath hot against his cheek. "No one—oh! I'm sorry—I didn't mean to—I'm sorry; I'm sorry—! I don't know who made me—fuck you! Fuck you; get off me! Get—_nn_—"

The angle was awkward, a crash of teeth against the side of his mouth—Bakura cursed and suddenly Ryou had his back against the door and Bakura's hands at his throat and chin, his shoulders, sliding downward to rub at his arms and grasp his wrists again and force them over his head. Bakura knelt between his sprawled legs and kissed his eyelids, his cheek, his jaw, the bump of bone at his shoulder, bare skin and cloth and hair—a wolf whistle from the crowd—

"Beliaf," moaned Bakura, and—

"Oh," said Ryou, fingers pushing the hood back, catching and tangling on the wild hair underneath, writhing closer. "Oh—can you—" _see it?_

_gold_

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

A/N: Ah, smut. Smut everywhere.

I used to write everything in order and follow a strict outline, but now this story is written in pieces, and when the chapter starts feeling "complete," I start splicing and hacking and moving like no other. (In fact, I'm writing this final note first.) So I feel I must apologize for the choppiness. . .

My laptop makes it so that I can write anywhere! I may actually finish Faust before summer ends (knock on wood)! Let's all cross our fingers. . .


	17. chaconne for snow white

FAUST  
yuugiou fanfiction  
ryuujitsu & co.

chapter seventeen: chaconne for snow white

Disclaimer: Saying Yuugiou belongs to us is like saying magpies are a dessert item—lattice over the fruit and everything.

A/N: Obviously, I have gone insane. Hopefully we both like this chapter. I haven't written it yet. We are moving rapidly to the showdown. It seems like the smut was well received. I am rather pleased and somewhat shocked by the response to it. (As such, I have planned more.)

This chapter is for Kat, who said she wouldn't mind a thirty-page update. Here you are, miss. Never mind the fjords; I pine for you!

itftc:

"the fall of rome wasn't that important."

--an English teacher

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

They are marching. They are marching and guardians, masters, parents all are snatching their young indoors; in Vladmir, in Kairo, in Damask, shutters are slamming against the light cast by the dying sun and the flames of the scimitars. Protections are cast against the few and the masses—twelvestrong in at least two towns—against the whirring and the gnashing of those metallic wings.

They are marching: a compact unit, no more than sixty. They have come slowly in the past weeks, trickling through portals in ones and twos, lying low in the remotest of villages. Now they have grown bold—but a week ago, it is whispered, they stopped and searched six trains, and two of those were on the luxury circuit, where there voyage only the wealthy—and therefore powerful—of the underworld.

They are marching. Demons of all regions shake and mutter; surely, it is the end of all they have known. The people of Hades cannot realize that the great generals of the upperworld have had eighty years to monitor the progress in the world far below and eighty years to perfect the retrieval plan. The people of Hades cannot know that this invasion was begun four months ago, when the last trump card of the angelics, hidden and honed for so long, quite suddenly and inexplicably disappeared.

They are marching. Their leaders halt them infrequently to rest and to plot, though they have no need, now, of maps. They follow the old exhausted roads, where countless others have traveled—to market, to sea, to war and other such adventures. For, despite all its winding confusion, the underworld has been well-served by its national architects. All roads, paved and dirt, lead to the center, to the very heart of Hades, and in the center there lies only one city, where the rest of their numbers await: Dahlia.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

It was cold and lonely that night in the minarets, but Mana in her shift and apron had been shivering even before she'd left the relative warmth of the castle—shivering even though she sat now ensconced by a heating spell, Mahaado's leatherbound journal resting heavy in her lap. And she had wanted quiet—a place where Bakura would be unlikely to discover her.

_'I confess,' _Mahaado had written, _'that I do not fully understand the application. It is quite easy to remove magic from amulets and other heirloom objects which have absorbed something of their owners' powers over years or even generations. In theory, there is no reason why demons should be any different. We are all, after all, much like the pendants and other enhancers we dangle from our necks—containers and channelers of a power that none can explain. Sapping the magic from us will crumble us to ash as it does to empowered objects. Adept murderers have killed some victims in this way; it has been documented. In theory—forgive me; it is late and I cannot think of another way to phrase it but "in theory"—the magic we pull from bodies should be able to be placed within inanimate objects. In amulets. _

_'But an amulet is a tiny thing—it gathers magic slowly, taking fragments from each owner over decades, whole generations—and I have never seen ones that exceed the size of a child's palm. The magic of one hundred demons—ah, I lie; it is the magic of one hundred over seven—should overwhelm and shatter any amulet into which we attempt to force it._

_'Here Akhenaden has corrected me, and Shaadi agrees—the Items are far larger than the typical amulet, and we will be taking not only the magic, but the soul—but how can the soul, in any way, bind metal—bind gold so pure that it is soft under my fingers?'_

The entry following was dated a week later. _'Akhenaden has this day taken me to see the first of the Items. His petty magicians have been at the forge without rest for days, and their labor has produced this—an Eye. The design is. . .interesting. Inspired by old legends, it seems, after the eye that the worldmakers gave our hero Balthazar to wear when he lost his own. It fits, Akhenaden says, in the palm, and will with luck adjust well to an empty socket. Maximilian has stepped forward to bear this particular burden—he takes control of the left flank as the Fourth General. These demons are each to have an Item. . .in this way, we will crush the angelic forces. . .it is exhilarating to know I have aided this effort in some small way.'_

A full year. _'Shaadi today introduced me to Lady Isis—daughter of his patron and good friend, the great Lord Ishtal. She is newly come to Court, versed in moon magicks. As for the experiment: Shaadi presses remorselessly forward. He is loyal to Akhenaden. They wish for Shaitan to be strong—this is certainly not Gozaburo's position, a fact he makes clear at every turn. Gozaburo's arguments are helped by his physical stature—he is enormous, a real giant. He towers over them both, though they do not seem intimidated. I have spoken to him on more than one occasion and learned from Shaadi that this demon's main struggles involve producing a legitimate heir—otherwise, he is concerned with Shaitan's money. Since Maximilian's disgrace, he has all but taken over the Treasury. . .' _She turned four pages. _'Shaitan's popularity has begun to wane—short of a solid triumph in war, his power will slide. He is desperate for the Items to give him that victory, but I grow fearful. . .there is an ominous feeling rising in me. Lady Isis is also a seeress—perhaps I should ask her her feelings on the whole affair? But of course that is ridiculous. . .not many outside of Shaitan's most intimate circle know of our project. Bring in a seventeen-year-old heiress? I've gone insane.'_

Frowning, Mana moved forward another ten pages. Newssheet-thin, the pages clung together; she ended up a good six years ahead. The entries here were sparse, dated weeks and then months apart.

_'He calls himself Bekhara. It is not a dialect I know; I have asked him its meaning. He admits that he is not sure, but assumes it is a corruption of "Ba Kuru"—Kuru's ba. The soul of Kuru—and Kuru is a queen of old, patroness to the villages in the westernmost lands—in Elna. Each night he is in the throes of some nightmare or another. I have done what I can to soothe him. It is his hand. The curse gnaws at him and drives him half-mad with pain._

_'The origin of the curse—its creator—is a puzzling subject. Bekhara has not altered a detail of his story about a bar fight gone horrifically wrong. But I doubt any demon as drunk as Bakura tells me this one was could have cast such a devastatingly perfect curse—not even such a demon's family, seeking revenge. No—such a thing was put in place deliberately, with awful consideration. Specific tendons were snapped and warped. The creator of this curse did it coldly, and with calculation—why destroy the right hand only? Was it a taunt? A challenge? As to that answer, I am again at a loss. From time to time I skim the surface of Bekhara's dreams and memories, but they tell me nothing. I wonder if he is screening them himself to prevent me from learning more. He is cunning, this one. Certainly he is quick to learn, almost reckless in his pursuit of understanding.'_

Mana could imagine Bakura poring over a book by candlelight—younger and famine-thin with his withered hand, looking somewhat ridiculous in an apprentice's floppy-brimmed blue hat.

_'He has been aware since the start of my snooping—how I despise that term! But I must admit that my research has been executed most inelegantly. The trust between us is, for the moment, severed. I have felt uneasy with him at such close quarters, too. Something dark hangs over him—it is not only the curse.'_

Two months had passed: _'Success—I have healed two fingers of the wretched hand. The effort has taken much from me. It will be a good month before I can attempt to heal the others—I do not want to think about the palm. I hasten my work as this uneasiness grows.'_

Three days later. _'It was a small thing, but it frightens me nonetheless. I have seen him today conversing with, alternately, a rather unsavory character and—can I write it?—the reanimated corpse of a small imp. He summoned it to my tower and quite unceremoniously snapped its neck as I watched—a crude concealing spell, but he was so enthralled with his work that he seemed not to notice my presence. The creature had no idea it had been killed—and all this he did with his left hand and four partially mobile fingers of the right. I suspect he means to raise the bodies of his slaughtered kin, and, Shaitan—he is clever enough to do it. As for the ragged sort I saw lurking near my gates, I have no explanation. As punishment for both I've banned him from the library and given him a few more menial tasks than usual. . .he raised a storm of protest and left in a fury. . .I'm feeling a bit of guilt. . .he is indeed a promising pupil; perhaps taking the library from him is an act too harsh. . .'_

Mana let her head fall back to rest against the stone of a pillar. "But why send me to him?" she murmured. "Why, if you feared him so—entrust me to him after you. . .?"

_"What if he doesn't live here anymore?"_

_"Then you must find him. Go as safely as you can, but find him." Her master's eyes were quiet and grave as they regarded her—so small and young, clutching a scrap of paper and a blue wax seal to her chest as though she meant to cherish them forever._

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

_Ibrahim bin Farouk was soft—or so Bekhara had sneered at him when they first met, months ago. How strange it was that they should have come together under these circumstances: two survivors of the dreadful massacre that had taken their guardians and their friends six years before, now both in a traitor's pay. Bekhara had grown dark and wild—a mad dog held in check only by the control of his new master. And Gozaburo's own sanity was on tenterhooks these days, reflected Ibrahim; it was a wonder they had come so far. Their progress certainly spoke of the decadence of Shaitan's regime; another sign the fool must be removed from power—at once! Before the whole of the underworld fell to decay._

_But he was unconcerned with these things—surely, Elna clamored in his veins, boiling his blood and demanding vengeance, but he had learned as Bekhara had not to cast away her voice. Gozaburo had brought Bekhara to fight; he had brought Ibrahim to tend to his son._

_At seventeen, Noah Kaiba's features lingered still in childhood—slight of build, with wide eyes and rounded cheeks and an absurdly boyish haircut. In recent weeks that face had become increasingly hollow; the body beneath it, on the other hand, had always been weak—bed-ridden for years at a time. Noah had seen very little of Hades—and now he was dying._

_"Hello, little master," said Ibrahim softly, regretting the scrape his chair made as he pulled it forward beside the bed._

_The sunken eyes opened. "Ibrahim." Chapped lips quivered as the boy drew a quivering breath, and then: "I dreamt that I had drowned—dragged to the bottom of the sea. How is my mother?"_

_"Pining for you," said Ibrahim immediately, and was rewarded with a faint smile. This was not the truth—Mistress Kaiba, pining or not, had not been seen for weeks. Rumor was she had gone mad when Noah was taken from her; rumor also had it that Gozaburo had subtly disposed of his wife in preparation for his marriage to another—a high-born demoness whom he hoped would give him a son. Ibrahim remembered her in all her silks, trailing after a stream of quack sorcerers—diminutive but proud and utterly absorbed in Noah's well being. The idea of Noah choking out his last breaths in this dark, empty place would kill her—if Gozaburo hadn't done so already._

_Noah must have felt similarly. "It is good," he said, "that she isn't here to—see. How long do you think it will be, Ibrahim?"_

_Hours—days—a full year? Ibrahim could not say. In past years Noah had fallen dangerously ill and recovered, though each bout left him further weakened. He might rally again—it was doubted. "I will be here, regardless of when it should happen," answered Ibrahim, and Noah smiled again._

_It did not matter, really. Gozaburo had done his grieving for this son years ago when Noah's physical weaknesses had become apparent—and Ibrahim had met Noah's replacement this morning, a boy of no more than four, standing awkwardly with Gozaburo's bearish hands clamped over each slender shoulder. He had something of Noah in him—the same wide eyes, the boyish cut. "My son," Gozaburo had said, with a heavy pat to the boy's back and all the gruffness of fatherly pride. "Ibrahim, your new charge—Seto, say hello."_

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

There was a weird quietness in Dahlia tonight—something eerie. The streets were empty, doors locked and all lights save streetlamps extinguished. As Yami moved past the circle of lamplight and reached back to catch Yuugi's hand, he became aware of a steady whirring—the clicking of gears and the stomp of hobnails on concrete—and most fearfully of all, the gleaming, glass-bright eyes that were staring at him in the light, which had been generated not by torches but the flames of countless swords. He knew at once what those swords meant. With a faint moan of terror, he seized Yuugi to him and stumbled backward—only to impact solidly with a steel breastplate. The hairs at his neck sizzled as a scimitar flamed to life behind him. They had been surrounded.

His first instinct was to fight—summon fire to his fingertips and kill as many as he could, as brutally and quickly as possible—enough so that they, shocked, would fall back to let him pass. Such a thing he might have done had Yuugi not been with him. Anyway, there were at least threescore of them, and well-trained elite by the look of it—not stragglers who would be afraid of a pup waving his arms about and screaming.

Sick with horror, he clutched Yuugi to him and tried to think. Perhaps it would be better if he fought—if they meant to take Yuugi from him, he would rather he fought until they were forced to tear him to pieces—

"At first clearing, run," he said to Yuugi—and let his palms ignite.

Forty scimitars glowed to life in response, and Yuugi cried out. With a howl more like a wail, Yami dove at the closest, punching his fist into solid armor. To his infinite surprise the breastplate melted back and the fabric beneath it began to sizzle. "Go, go!" he shouted at Yuugi, bashing the sword from its owner's hand and throwing himself at the next. They could make it, if only he could keep this up—

The hilt of a sword caught him hard across the face, knocking him off the curb and into the gutter. Another menaced his neck as he lay, gasping and bleeding on the sidewalk—the killing stroke—

In another instant Yuugi was cowering against him. "Stop!" he screamed at the angels. "Stop—stop—oh, God, I'll go with you! I'll go! Don't kill—don't kill him!" Sobbing, he pressed against Yami's side.

Yami shuddered. "No—no—I'd rather—" _die!_

"Idiot!" said Yuugi, looking so furiously angry that Yami looked away. "Where—what would I do if you—idiot, shut up! _Hae!_"

Boots crunching through the gravel at the side of the street. A commander was approaching them, decorated with a helmet festooned with red feathers and bits of glass—it was so bizarre that Yami wanted to laugh. The angel's words, though, cut him short. "Strange notion you have, demon," he said to Yuugi, thrusting a scimitar forward and examining him closely in the firelight. Yuugi blinked. "But before we take you away, we'll have to know who you are."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

The oil lamp burned low and sweet by Isis' elbow, casting flickering shadows across the manuscripts that she had spread across her worktable. Atop those papers she had opened three enormous books—one an encyclopaedia, the other two histories—and sat moving from left to write, shuffling through pamphlets. For all the legends that supported the golden pair theory, there had been very few documented cases, and of those, only two seemed legitimate.

_Impossible,_ she thought.

If Ryou had been a human soul, born devoid of magic, it would indeed have been impossible. But she had been standing there in that hall when he had seized Bakura's hand and created a magical wave that would have reduced its target to ash—in demonic, no less. For a soul to know the words of so devastating a spell was unheard of; that he had been able to execute the attack with such force was unbelievable. She doubted, though, that the power had come from Ryou alone. There was a connection between this boy and Bakura—of that, she was sure.

_And the only connection that I can imagine is through the soul. Ryou cannot be fully human—for the golden pair theory to work, I have to make that assumption. But, Shaitan! _How _could Bakura have come to be connected to a soul that is decades younger than his own?_

There had been attempts, stated one book disapprovingly, to create golden pairs artificially. Such attempts had systematically and completely failed, the book went on to say. Subjects went mad or were killed when their combined magic grew out of their control. Or both.

She paused. Bakura _was_ going mad—according to Marikku. The silver fiend had never been entirely sane, in Isis' opinion—

_Let's say they _are_ a golden pair—a demon-made one. Let's say it _was_ the Big Five who took Bakura into their custody after he was imprisoned—let's say they tried to create a golden pair and the experiment failed. That explains Bakura's sanity and it explains his behavior on the battlefield—power gone wild consuming the mind—burning the body free of scars. But it does not explain Ryou, who is eighty years too young._

"I'm going in circles," she muttered aloud, burying her head in her hands. "Haven."

She'd been on the verge of it earlier, she knew—a few days ago when Marikku had come back from Bakura's castle looking so disheartened. She'd gotten almost the entire story from him, then.

Maybe none of it was connected. Maybe it was all some sort of elaborate ruse. _Joke's on you, Isis; ha ha, did you have a good laugh? _Maybe Bakura, who had been dabbling in the darker magicks and mixing himself with the wrong sorts for most of his adult existence, was coming naturally to the end of his time. It was young, certainly, but he'd lived a hard life—one that had taken an extreme toll on him. Maybe Ryou was a coincidence.

_Sure, he's a coincidence—now explain the uncanny resemblance, the channeling of Bakura's magic. If it had been another soul in Ryou's place, Bakura would have died long ago._

Beliaf and Mammon were the pair of legend—inseparable and obscenely powerful, the heroes of many children's tales in the underworld. The truth of their lives had long dissolved into a fog of exaggerated stories. There had been another—documented, this time—twins.

Twins, thought Isis sourly, made a blessed lot more sense. Conceived at the same time, twins shared magic in the womb. Immediately after birth those ties were broken. It was said, after all, that twins had an uncanny sense of connection—telepathy, even. This set—fraternal, Helga and her brother Dargus—had simply been born before their particular links were severed. They had been something of a phenomenon in the village of their birth and had disappeared from the port of Arachne some eight centuries prior, purportedly into the mundane realm.

Marikku's exact words were returning to her. _"With what made our world. He made a deal. . .and he broke it."_

She had humored him then, but to be honest she doubted such creatures had ever existed. Certainly, there were corruptions and barriers that prevented her from speaking their names—but those blocks could have been created by a powerful sorcerer from ages past. There was no reason to believe they'd come from primeval monsters—world-makers, as some, more fantastical, books called them.

_"I suppose They—if They're sentient—I suppose that was one of the traps. They knew he would lose himself and break the contract. It was an unfair agreement to begin with, but—" Marikku paused. "But I think Bakura had always planned to die—he'd wanted to die, and Medusa. . ."_

Medusa, if anything, was only proof that Bakura had been a demon—and mortal—even if he wasn't now. The gorgon-cat had been meant as a protection for Marikku, to guard him from death—nine lives it should have granted him, but the idiot had had to go and give the cat away. If Bakura had indeed made a deal with the world-makers and been forged into something else, a weapon and a killer, then Medusa would not have been able to save him once—let alone two or three times, as the cat already had. According to Marikku, anyway.

Another thought hit her—a question for which she again had no answers. _If Bakura and this soul of his form the two parts of a golden pair—then why are they so unstable? Why, though this soul has been returned to him, does he remain on the verge of collapse?_

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

"Strange notion you have, demon," said the angelic commander, scanning Yuugi from head to toe in the crackling light from his scimitar. "But before we take you away, we'll have to know who you are."

Yuugi's breath caught. Yami lay silent in the gutter, scarcely daring to believe. _It's not Yuugi that they want. . .?_

"You don't—?" began Yuugi, then squeaked in fright as Yami grabbed his ankle. "Ah—I mean—"

A commotion—a blond angel pushed himself to the front and began gabbling at Yuugi in angelic, so swiftly and with such a thick accent that Yami could not understand a word of it. Yuugi, in the firelight, looked distinctly torn—he glanced frantically between Yami and the blonde, who was now explaining something to the commander, jerking a finger emphatically at Yuugi's head.

"Oh, God, Joseph," said Yuugi helplessly, at last. _"Bu yao jiang hua!" Keep quiet!_

The commander was looking at him in confusion. "Is this true?" he said at length, in more intelligible angelic.

Miserably, Yuugi nodded. "But you can see—" he gulped "—can see that I've Fallen, so it is no use for you to take me back—"

"_Yuutsi!_" exclaimed the blond angel, giving Yami a rather nasty look.

"Joseph!" said the commander in quelling tones. (Scowling, the blond angel moved back.) Then, with a frown: "Sir, we have not a single intention of taking you back. We ourselves will not be returning home for several weeks."

Yami could contain himself no longer. "Why?" he burst out. "Why are you here at all?"

The commander looked only mildly surprised at Yami's use of angelic. "You have attacked my men unprovoked; I will not allow this incident to pass without punishment. I recognize you as one on the wanted list in this land. Fortunately for you, your government wants you alive, so I will deliver you to—"

"_My_ government?" said Yami, incredulously. "But _I_—"

"You are working with the demonic government?" said Yuugi quietly. "Why?"

"I will not explain, sir," said the commander, just as quietly. "You are Fallen; you are in league with this one. A terrorist duo. Gather them up!" he snapped, and four angels stepped forward. The blond one grabbed Yami by the shoulder and jerked him up from the gutter, twisting his arms behind his back—somewhat more roughly than was necessary, thought Yami darkly. Another put a heavy hand at the back of his neck and forced his head down. A distressed noise from Yuugi indicated that the angel was receiving similar treatment. _Fuck, _thought Yami. _This is my fault—fuck!_

"Sir!" said Yuugi, more boldly than Yami had ever heard him speak. It was almost a shout, and the commander paused. "You don't know what you're doing. Fallen I may be, but I am Solomon Mutou's grandson, and this demon is in my custody. He's my prize! You will release us both at once."

"Is this—" began the commander, but Yuugi, voice grown loud and powerful, spoke over him.

"Do you dare question it, sir?" he said. "My uncle is a magician in God's own court. He'll hear of it, I assure you. They marked me when I was born—that mark has not faded. See for yourself." And he snatched up the commander's hand and guided it to his face. Surely, thought Yami in despair, the commander would see through the sham. But as Yuugi all but slapped the angel's palm against his forehead, Yami saw him exhale three words—spells for doubt, confusion, trust. The darker charms of a Fallen—blight and trickery.

Symbols glowed bright and unmistakable above Yuugi's eyebrows, and the commander, eyes oddly misted, stepped back. "Release them," he said dully. Three of their holders jolted back immediately, machine-like in their movements.

"But, sir!" said the blond angel, still gripping Yami's wrist.

"Release them, I said!" snapped the commander, and the blond gave Yami's arm a particularly vicious twist before dropping it. "Move out—they're of no concern to us now. Move out. We must reach the capital building by moonrise."

Wordlessly they obeyed him.

"Goodbye, Joseph," said Yuugi. Then, turning to Yami, he said cheerily, "You're free to go, _Hae._"

"You're something else," said Yami in disbelief. "You conniving little—"

_We must reach the capital building by moonrise._

"Oh, Shaitan!" Yami hissed, clapping his un-twisted arm to his own forehead. Yuugi looked at him in alarm. "Yuugi, you heard him, didn't you? 'Reach the capital building by moonrise'? They're going to attack the Council! We—we have to warn them!"

The whirring and clicking of the angelic soldiers was still audible, though faint. Without another word Yami spun about and sprinted after the sound. Behind him, he heard Yuugi give a long sigh.

"_Hae,_" said the angel as he caught up with him and slipped his hand into Yami's, "when we reach the mundane world I am not speaking to you for a week."

"You're something else," said Yami again, squeezing his fingers.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

The fire burned white-hot in Pegasus' first-floor office, filling the room with a roaring, suffocating warmth. Pegasus sat at his desk—this one of mahogany—and his supporters surrounded him, leaning on the mantle or lounging in chairs. Jou stood as unobtrusively as he could behind Kaiba, who waited at the edge of the room with arms tense at his sides. Jou's arms were glistening with sweat; he imagined Kaiba must not be very comfortable, either.

Kaiba had been speaking for a good ten minutes when the demon opposite him raised himself up and said, "Maximilian. How much longer must we listen to this drivel?"

Jou blinked. Kaiba's smooth face registered no astonishment, though he did pause; he opened his mouth to go on—

The red-vested demon resting his elbow on the left side of the mantle said, "Let him talk, Derran." He smiled a thoroughly unpleasant smile, drummed his fingers on the mantle, and continued, "I'm curious to see, myself, what sort of plan this half-breed mutt has concocted." Mutt. The word hit Jou like a sandbag to the chest.

This time Kaiba recoiled as if struck. Then he said, very quietly, "Perhaps I heard you incorrectly, sir."

"No, I think you understand me," said Red Vest.

"Now, Wulf," said Pegasus, amusement plain in his voice. _They're all toying with us, _thought Jou, feeling cold. _Saturday night entertainment is all we are._

"I did not come to have my time wasted, Maximilian," said Red Vest flatly. "He's as good as human, and look at the creature in his attendance. We're interested in solid credits and seas that are good for shipping, not the harebrained schemes of a bastard. I'll not support it."

There were murmurs of agreement.

"Listen to me," said Kaiba urgently. He was speaking more quickly, and somewhat more loudly. "The Council is old-fashioned; they will remember the ways of the former Shaitan and block your movements. As I have told Pegasus, grant me your support and I will remember the aid you have given me when the throne is mine."

"A pretty promise," said a green-haired demon scornfully. "Swiftly made and just as swiftly forgotten."

"Aye," agreed the demon closest to Jou—face so wrinkled his very eyes were hidden by the folds. "I've seen three Shaitans come and go, boy. These promises are trash; you will cast us aside."

"I must say," said Pegasus, in a voice so oily Jou wanted to break in his face, "that you have already broken a bargain with me. The vampire is gone."

"What can I offer you?" said Kaiba, staring from one demon to the next. Jou's heart had sunk to his toes. "What is it you want? Trading permits—business with the upperworld—a blood oath? I can give those things to you."

"You can do none of it," broke in Red Vest violently. "A blood oath binds only the pure; you're not but the son of a traitor and his human bitch. A traitor who lost Maximilian his eye, and I my entire fleet!"

Jou had never seen Kaiba look so deadly, or so white. "I am not," rasped Kaiba, "my father."

Red Vest slammed his fist against the mantle. "I'll have none of it. Maximilian, let's be done with this. He's convinced none of us."

"Wait," said Jou. Desperation had made his voice raw. He grabbed hold of the nearest rounded armrest, working a finger through its grooved claws and wishing for Otogi, who would have known what to say. Pegasus' demons watched at him, distaste and disinterest in their narrowed, coal-dark eyes. "Wait—let me speak for him—"

"No," said Kaiba shortly, catching Jou by the arm. Jou started, staring at him. "No," said Kaiba again. "There's no need. _I will remember this._"

He spun on his heel and strode from the room.

Jou was about to follow him but stopped suddenly at the door. He turned to Pegasus, who was regarding him coolly. "You're—" His voice was shaking and he paused to steady it. "You're not worth a half of him, you shitheads," he said, and went out.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

He was yelling as soon as he'd cleared the building. Humid night air hit him in a wave as he stepped out into the blackness. He glanced wildly from streetlight to streetlight and could see nothing but blurry, indistinct shapes hurrying back and forth—crowds of demons. "Kaiba! Where are you? Oi, Kaiba!"

Then—his heart jumped—he saw a solitary dark figure a good hundred meters away, moving swiftly against the winking lights of the pier—about to round a corner and disappear from view. "Fuck," he muttered, and began to sprint.

"Kaiba!" he shouted. Was the asshole speeding up? Shit, was he starting to _run?_ "Kaiba, you fucking asshole, wait the hell up! Stop!"

He dodged a couple and ducked under the arm of a particularly big guy, shoving through a slow-moving clump of old ladies, who began shrilling in protest.

"What the hell are you doing out so late, anyway?" he yelled over his shoulder. Kaiba had vanished around the corner—no matter; he was gaining, and he was pretty sure Kaiba had turned into a dead end. "Go—go knit or something, grannies—fuck!"

Kaiba was forty meters away now—fifteen—two—he'd hit the alley wall; there was nowhere to go.

"Fuck!" screamed Kaiba, driving his fist into the brick.

Jou lunged. "Dammit, Kaiba!" he snapped, grabbing the demon's shoulder. Kaiba whirled at once and socked him right in the face, and Jou reeled away, bruised and cursing. "Kaiba—"

Kaiba hit him again, _hard_. A blow to the chest knocked all the breath out of him and pushed him back three steps. An elbow slammed into his back, driving him down. His head smashed into the cobblestones. Somewhere above him Kaiba was shouting—"fuck you" over and over, but growing fainter; Kaiba was going to run again, and Jou would be _damned _if he let him go.

He put a hand on cool stone and writhed onto his back, deflecting the fist that was coming at his face. He grabbed Kaiba's wrist and used the demon's momentum to pull himself up, kicking one of Kaiba's legs out from under him as he did—Kaiba went sprawling, but Jou wouldn't let him touch the ground. He yanked at Kaiba's wrist and heard Kaiba give a hiss of pain—at the next moment, Kaiba was falling into him. Jou hooked an arm around the demon's neck and bent his elbow.

"You crazy fucker," he snarled, snatching at Kaiba's left arm and twisting it behind him. "Are you—_agh_—"

Cold teeth had closed on his shoulder; without thinking, Jou shoved Kaiba away and punched the damn dragon in the jaw. It broke around his fist, but Jou had no time to be bewildered—Kaiba launched himself from the alley wall, dragons shrieking around his clenched hands.

Jou grabbed the first around the neck and threw it from him, belting the other one across the flank. He experienced nothing more than a brief, fleeting moment of cold wherever the dragons had brushed him—then he was facing Kaiba again—sweating, red-faced Kaiba—

"I can take whatever you throw at me," he said. A strange calm had settled over him.

He blocked another punch that might have knocked out a tooth or two and let his forearm crash against Kaiba's windpipe. He slammed the demon into the wall and held him there with body and arm, listening in grim satisfaction as Kaiba choked and strangled against him.

"You crazy demon fucker," he hissed into Kaiba's ear. "Are you _done_ with your fucking hissy fit?"

Kaiba stopped struggling abruptly, and Jou let the steel go out of his arm and stepped away, panting. Kaiba slid to the ground. He leaned against the wall and breathed raggedly.

"Look," said Jou quietly, "this isn't the end of things."

Kaiba brought a hand to his face and began to laugh. Jou waited until the laughter turned into gagging. "Kaiba," he said. "Hey. Seriously. This isn't the end of it. You know it isn't."

Kaiba gave a wheezing chuckle; the hand moved to cover his eyes. "Time's run out, mutt. He's probably d—"

"Shut it," said Jou sharply. "He's not. You know he isn't. He's like you, right? Tough kid, right? C'mon. Truce. Let's get ourselves patched up. We can regroup. We can—" for the first time his voice wavered "—we can wait for Otogi someplace. He usually knows where to find us. C'mon, Kaiba."

He held out a shaking hand and after a moment Kaiba took it. Jou interlocked the cold fingers with his own and pulled him up as gently as he could, and, bloodied and weary, they left the alley.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Yami, hidden behind a pillar, clutched both hands to his mouth and dry-retched into them. Beside him, Yuugi was whimpering with fear. _A coup,_ thought Yami—he couldn't shake the word from his mind. _A coup. A coup._ A hairsbreadth from his crouched body lay a woman's hand, severed from the rest of her body—halfway across the great room. The floor beneath their feet and the walls around them were slick and awash with blood.

"Ah," sobbed Yami into a fist. "Ah—_Shaitan, Shaitan—" A coup. A coup. Oh Shaitan._

The Council lay scattered before him—he counted five; three familiar faces and two he'd never known—all dead. Three, it seemed, had simply fallen where they'd been standing—killed swiftly—maybe by poison, as their bloated, distorted faces suggested. The other two, like the woman, had met their fates more gruesomely. Shaadi was not among them.

The angels had marched past the carnage without a second glance, continuing through a row of slain guards into the deliberation chambers.

"_Hae,_" mumbled Yuugi. "_Hae—_that one. _She is not dead._"

In an instant Yami was across the room, slipping on the blood, feet catching in his cloak. He was moving so clumsily—like a child—

The woman with the severed hand was indeed not dead—yet. Blood frothed at her lips and her eyes rolled back and forth; her chest, torn open by a massive blast, shook with shallow breaths. She wore the gold robes of state and Yami landed hard on his knees by her shoulder. She looked entirely too young to be Council—

"Please," he whispered, gagging again—she reeked of blood and bile and rot— "Please. Tell me who did this to you—angels? Please!" he said, voice high, and her rolling eyes focused on him.

"Not—angels," she gasped. Her eyes were huge in her face, which had gone pale with shock. It was amazing she'd held on so long, said a detached part of Yam's brain, and he wanted to be sick right then and there. "Big Five—please, you must warn—Shaadi!" A shudder shook her. "Betrayed us. . .ah—Crown. . .Prince?" Blood dribbled from her mouth; another shudder and she was dead.

Her eyelashes had gone stiff with blood. Yami spoke to her still white face as he closed her eyes. "I'll warn Shaadi," he vowed, though at the moment panic had him tight in its grip and he'd no idea, no inkling, of how he was going to be able to find and contact Shaadi—and if Shaadi were dead. . .he swallowed hard. "We will avenge this—"

"_Hae_—" Yuugi's hand was urgent on his shoulder. "They are coming back—"

Choking, Yami retreated, pulling Yuugi with him and tucking the blood-soaked cloak over the both of them. The blood would camouflage them—hide their magic from detection—

The angels filed out again, stepping through the bodies as though there was nothing underfoot and the floor was pristine—a two-thirds of them, headed by their helmeted commander and including the blond angel, marched for the open columns and the night beyond; the remaining third went directly to the bodies, lifting and hauling them toward a downward-leading staircase.

Voices filtered out from the deliberation chambers, growing ever louder. Yami pressed himself flat against the wall and Yuugi imitated him, trembling.

The first to emerge was a small, squat demon with black hair plastered close to his round little head. He had the air of an oversized, sullen pigeon and was followed closely by two others—one tall and wire-thin, the other large and hulking. All three were wearing suits. They stood among the working angels and seemed to be having a discussion of sorts.

"Forty-three should be enough to subdue them," the thin one was saying.

"With the element of surprise, certainly, Leichter," said the bird-like one. "But I've put the numbers through my head and they have an eighteen percent chance of escaping—fifty-two percent if warning has been given."

"Which it will not have been," said the giant.

"It does not matter," the thin one—Leichter—said impatiently. "You saw yourselves how weakened he was."

"Mm," said the bird-like one. "But still so arrogant."

The giant was considering this. Angels milled around his bulk, hauling the last of the bodies. "We did not account for the boy, last time," he said. "Or that blessed gorgon cat."

"But we have tonight," said Leichter, mouth twisting.

"Yes," murmured the bird-like demon, with a sharp and terrible smile, and Yami shuddered. "Tonight changes all things."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

The Ogre's Eyetooth Tavern in Vladmir was dark, boisterous, and smoke-filled—hazy enough to hide their faces and loud enough to drown any sound that issued from them. Jou evaded the door-guard easily and brought Kaiba to a wobbling table in the back, where there were immediately and inexplicably full tankards waiting for them.

They sat silently. Jou watched Kaiba and listened to the snatches of conversation from unseen patrons that were floating all around.

"Angelics. . .saw them with my own eyes!" someone was saying enthusiastically. "Around noon today, marching down the road. Looked to be a whole score of the bastards!"

"A likely story," grunted someone else, and mothers were slandered.

"Those merchants were partially correct," said Kaiba suddenly, voice hoarse. He paused, as though waiting for Jou to interrupt. Jou said nothing, and Kaiba continued: "My mother was not an innocent woman. Gozaburo did not deceive and desert her as he did his other mistresses. He did not seduce her; she traded her body for the power that he had promised her. I was unexpected, but Gozaburo made another deal. He would collect me later; if I were powerful, he would reward her. If he didn't want me she could do as she pleased with me. And how could I not be powerful, she must have reasoned, the product of a union between a full-blooded witch and demon? She agreed at once.

"I suppose she must have been fond of me as a novelty in her life. I was her bargaining chip, so she treated me with care and raised me well but without much emotion. When the day came and Gozaburo returned for me, she handed me over without protest. Her name was Ilse. She wouldn't hear of me calling her Mother—it was Ilse or nothing else."

"Ilse, huh," mused Jou.

"Gozaburo himself taught me for a full year—then, without explanation, he sent me away to be privately taught. I found out later that Gozaburo had married and that—naturally—he did not want his new wife to know of his past liaisons. She realized our connection soon enough but never acknowledged it. My instructor was a demon named Ibrahim bin Farouk—he might have been the one to tell her of my parentage."

"Ibrahim," said Jou. "You used that name—on the train."

"He was one in Gozaburo's circle," said Kaiba quietly. "His spellwork was not very good, but he was kind to me."

A loud bang that infused some sulfur into the air and several snarled curses surprised them both. The "your mother" jabs seemed to have evolved into a full-fledged bar-fight, complete with shattering tankards and small, contained explosions.

"We should go," Jou muttered. "Let's find a place to put up for the night."

Kaiba frowned but did not argue.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Outside, on the wharf, the sounds of the bar-fight were washed away by the quiet rush of the sea. Kaiba stared out over the black water; Jou watched him and waited. His lip had split open and his arms were sore, but he felt weirdly at peace. He wondered, briefly, what Kaiba was thinking.

The night air was sticky on Jou's skin. His clothes stank of sweat and smoke and beer. He knew Pegasus' castle was looming huge somewhere behind him, lit like the fucking Eiffel Tower on a postcard, but right now Kaiba's shadow against the lights of the many boats docked in the port had his full attention—had him strangely dry-mouthed, too. He'd never seen Kaiba this pensive.

He stepped closer. Kaiba was breathing softly—more softly still Jou could hear the water sloshing somewhere below their feet.

"Hey," he said, and Kaiba turned with a creak toward him, and things became very simple—easy, so fucking easy; he took another step forward and had a hand around Kaiba's swollen jaw. His mouth hit kind of off-center, but then Kaiba shifted and seemed to soften and it was sour and slow and fucking perfect.

There was quiet after he pulled away. "Otogi will come back," he mumbled. "In fact he's probably watching."

Kaiba's chuckle got stuck somewhere in his throat. "I'm sure," said the demon dryly.

Jou started to shrug, then froze as a familiar feeling of vertigo seized him. Seconds later he was falling backward into mist and Kaiba, shouting something he couldn't hear, had grabbed his wrist and was tumbling down with him—

_The boy was looking greyer than ever before, though his features had sharpened enough to reveal hard, determined eyes, entirely out of place above a weak chin and soft, rounded cheeks._

_Kaiba's hand rested heavy on Jou's shoulder for a moment; then he was pushing Jou away and moving swiftly forward. "Mokuba," he said._

_The boy's eyes widened. "_'Nii-sama!_" he exclaimed, and broke into a big, childish smile. "Thank Shaitan—I've been trying for weeks, just the way you taught me—but it was always him—" and he pointed accusingly at Jou, whose grin melted somewhat._

_Kaiba loomed over the boy, his eyes bright and terrible with urgency and—something else: relief. "Mokuba—where are they holding you? Tell me."_

_The boy—Mokuba—seemed to cringe. "I don't know, _'Nii-sama,_" he said, looking downcast. "They were holding me at a temple for weeks and weeks and they've only just moved me—_'Nii-sama!_" he burst out. "You know my geography sucks! I'm sorry."_

_Kaiba looked stern. "'Sucks' is not the proper way for Shaitan to speak," he said, and Jou felt laughter bubbling behind his lips. Trust Kaiba to—be so fucking _weird_ about this. If it had been Shizuka he would have been on her in a second, hugging her as tight as he could—he broke that thought off abruptly, swallowing. Thinking of her caused a pang; he would get back—he would. She'd see him yet. He looked back at Kaiba and his kid brother, throat prickling. "Describe the place to me," Kaiba was saying._

_The boy bit at his lip. "It's definitely dark," he said. "They've kept me mostly in the dark. . .I don't think there are any windows here. There's a carpet, though—it's thick, and clean. Where there isn't carpet there's cold stone. It's the lower floor—they come and go through a staircase and sometimes I hear people moving around on top. . .but mostly it's quiet. I've been really bored."_

_The sarcasm of Kaiba's smile was marred somewhat by the way his mouth was trembling. "Don't tell me that's all you noticed, Mokuba?"_

_"Oh!" said Mokuba. "How could I forget—it's really weird—there's a closet here and it's full of these heavy, glossy robes—and wigs, too! And some kind of big stone chair—oh, no. I think they're coming—I'll see you soon, right, _'Nii-sama?_" His grin was absurdly young and eager._

_"Mokuba!" said Kaiba, snatching at him, but his fingers passed through air—the boy had gone._

They were lying side by side on the cool cobblestones, the sea breeze moving gently over them. Kaiba spoke to the two moons rising in the sky. "Shaitan's palace, the lower court," he said grimly. "I'm sure of it."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

"Oh, ouch!" Ryou hissed and brought his hand to his mouth, sucking away the beads of blood that had welled up across his torn fingertips. It was amazing, he reflected, that he could still bleed. And bruise. And feel such awful stinging! He frowned at the culprit—a shard of purple glass about the length of his thumb—and eased it from the half-solid resin that had hidden it from view. Somehow the glass had gone into the torch. Several more pieces were actually imbedded in the walls, but no matter. Ryou removed all the slivers and collected them in his palm, careful not to squeeze them.

Mana had burst upon them earlier—she'd flung the door open and shouted for Ryou, no doubt entirely convinced that Bakura had taken him outside to kill him. When Ryou had fallen backward with a surprised "oof" and Bakura had fallen with him, somewhat bewildered but perfectly willing to continue what he'd been doing to Ryou's throat, Mana had gone white, then red. She'd snapped that she wanted the dance room spotless by the next day and that if they needed her she'd be in the tower room.

Bakura had said they wouldn't be needing her.

_In the dark, his fingers stole soft and quiet down Bakura's spine, finding and pressing against each hollow and coming at last to a rest in the small of the demon's back._

_"I don't know what I am," he mumbled, into the smooth cold shoulder pressing against his lips. "I came back. I came back to you."_

_Bakura sucked in a breath, and—_

Glass crunched. Ryou snapped upright, smile slipping from his lips, all somnolence leaving him. Quietly, half turning, he reached for the cold neck of a broken bottle—

Magic lashed around his arms and paralyzed him; the bottle fell from his nerveless grip—it was magic he'd never known, that spoke to some part of him beyond his brain and made him ache with a primordial fear—

They were watching him—a cluster of misshapen heads and bright staring eyes—faces at once beautiful and terrifying, doll-like, expectant—distorted, twisting before him. The weird mechanical sound of pops and clicks echoed like a growing knell between his ears, or a shriek—louder and louder and louder—the sudden pain of glass cutting into his hand brought him back, but only for a moment. Something thundered to life in him, wild and desperate and old—ineluctable; he could not stop this.

He might have wailed, long and wordless. Shivering, gasping, he cowered back—had he fallen? Was he standing still? The world seemed to have spun around him—or perhaps it was his very eyes that were being attacked, shifting and molding to a new form—insubstantial, light-soft, floating away—oh, _God_! He didn't want this—not this—please—

"Stop," he moaned. "Oh, God, stop—"

—dissolving—what _were _they—why—?

Hands tore at him—caught his wrist and broke him into a thousand pieces. Then he was sinking back, skin and muscle and bone peeling away—oh, closer, yes!

"_Move!_" Bakura snarled at him, and Ryou opened his eyes.

They were running up the winding staircase, dragging as Ryou's right foot had yet to completely reappear after the teleportation; pixels trailed them. A whirlwind of noise was following them, too—all clatter and shouts and confusion, filling the stairwell in an overwhelming rush. Ryou chanced a look over his shoulder and saw the trimmed heads and gnashing wings—ten angels in all, each porcelain face blank, twenty hands outstretched with magic crackling at the fingertips, the magic that had almost—

_Closer_, crooned his brain.

He cried out as he saw, stalling. "Never mind it," snapped Bakura. The demon smashed his free hand into a panel on the wall and shouted something else; a castle trap announced itself with a whoosh, enveloping their pursuers and muffling the chaotic reverberations. "Move!" He jerked his arm—a movement that Ryou felt rippling to where the other white spidery hand should have been—to where his own wrist was. Their forearms had melded together. His left hand was gone.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

They hurtled into the study in an explosion of limbs and magic and books, tumbling into Bakura's desk and upending a tray of ink bottles. The door crashed shut behind them and Mana was there at once, hands blurring as she formed and broke rune after rune, muttering swiftly under her breath.

Bakura's smile was ruthless as he watched her. "Oh, _good_ girl," he said. "And the minarets?"

"Deadly, sir," she snapped, eyes gleaming with malice. As she spoke, the study ceiling let out a bellow, drowning out the shouts above them. Dust, hot with magic, rained down.

Beaming, Bakura turned to Ryou. "Right, then. I'll have my arm back, if you don't mind. And my hip, t—mm."

"No," whispered Ryou, kissing him and not quite knowing what he was saying. His right hand found Bakura's neck under the mane of white hair and vanished in; he was warm and drunk and full of want. "We could—"

"Maybe later, soul-boy," said Bakura. "When we haven't got angels storming the castle, perhaps."

"What's wrong with him?" Ryou heard Mana ask, seemingly from a long way off.

"Spell," Bakura replied briskly. And then, to Ryou: "But if you insist." His hand found Ryou's jaw and sank almost immediately in; Ryou heard himself cooing with pleasure. Bakura's mouth was soft against his—then came a quick, hard sting and an excruciating moment of heat, and Bakura was gone from him. Senses spinning, mouth full of blood, Ryou reached for the demon and found that his left hand had been restored.

"Are you yourself again or shall I have Mana shock you?" said Bakura coolly, getting to his feet and going to his desk.

"Ah," said Ryou vaguely, hand going to his mouth. "I'm—I'm sorry."

Mana was beside him in a moment, eyes wide. "What did you do?" she said to Bakura. "Was it really something as simple as an electric—"

"Really, poppet," said Bakura, rummaging through the drawers. He tossed quills aside and swept books and parchment scrolls to the floor. "I'm not one for smashing unsuspecting innocents across the mouth, you know. Here we are." He'd found an immense roll of papyrus and was spreading the fragile stuff—there were six sheets in all—across the desk and floor, dropping a book at each corner to prevent it from curling in on itself. Ryou, raising himself slowly to his knees, examined the one that had fallen closest to him and saw that these were blueprints of the castle, depicting two or three floors at a time, room for room, corridor for corridor—trap for trap.

Bakura tossed a quill at Mana, who caught it and produced an unscathed inkbottle from somewhere in the depths of her apron pockets. "Cover as many rooms as you can," he said. "As wicked as you please; the castle will support you. Killer bees. Bottomless pits. Man-eating ferns. You understand."

"Oh, yes," said Mana, grinning.

Bakura dropped to the ground beside Ryou. "Triangles, d'you think?" he said, scratching at his chin with the nib of his quill. "Or ovals. No, I like triangles better." He dipped the quill into a jar of runny black ink and began scratching symbols over a second floor corridor, a series of interlocking triangles and loops. The blueprints glowed faintly, and in a moment the messy scrawl across "Room of Shining Friendship" had vanished into the papyrus.

"Don't ask me," said Bakura, writing swiftly across another section of the paper. Hourglasses and inverted triangles burned and faded over "Marshmellon's Friendly Grotto." "Our landlady of the Pink is batshite insane. Oh, hell, what's this?"

His wild, tangled triangles had reappeared and shattered, spraying them both with ink. Bakura cursed quietly and began scribbling at a frantic pace, calling over to Mana, "They've disabled the first of the second floor traps—record time, must give them credit—blessit! Put some easy ones on the third floor and just _fuck them up_ when they hit the staircases!"

Mana's voice was warped by the quill she held clenched tight in her teeth. "They've mages among them; our traps won't hold them long!" The nib of her writing quill snapped and she spat out the spare, teeth blackened by ink.

Bakura swore again as another set of triangles burst open on the papyrus. He was writing furiously, slashing thick green lines across the staircases—assigning traps two at a time to some steps, four at a part of a banister. His spells were breaking almost as quickly as he drew them—

Ryou snatched up a quill and dragged the fifth floor layout into his lap, ignoring Bakura's stare. He knew some basics, at least—the idea was to slow them, right? Discourage and separate and perhaps tear limb from limb?

They worked frantically, designs growing sloppy and blotchy with the speed of desperation.

"Right; that's torn it," Bakura announced, as the whole east wing of the fourth floor ruptured, showering him in green ink. He was white to the lips and breathing hard. Above them the ceiling shuddered and groaned with sounds of combat; whatever it was Mana had conjured had yet to be dispersed—_thank goodness_, thought Ryou. "I'll blast our way out."

He drew himself in a single liquid movement; Ryou rose with him and had his arms around him before either of them knew what was happening. "No!"

"What is it, my little magic-eating soul-slave?" said Bakura sweetly.

"You can't," said Ryou. "You can't kill. You can't cast spells with the intent to kill. The thousandth of thousands," he said, speaking from a dream—and seeing the afternoon sun red across the bodies of the angelic legions, red like Bakura' eyes. His voice was shaking but certainty lent strength to his arms; he knew, somehow, that this was the truth. "The thousandth of thousands—if you kill any more, you'll—you'll die!"

Bakura had gone very still. "How do you know about that?" he said quietly.

"It doesn't matter," said Ryou, holding him fast. "That doesn't matter—nothing matters and I know _this will kill you_. Don't go. Please don't go."

"I have to agree with him, sir," said Mana, standing. "There are too many. If you collapse they _will _overrun us."

A murmur filled Ryou's ears, slow and sweet and suggestive. _Closer, don't you think? You're only touching him now. Let's go deeper._ "Bakura," he said unsteadily. "I am going to let go of you now. But you must not go. Please don't. We can—we can think of something else."

The ceiling had gone ominously silent. A rich, wet squelch alerted them to the papyrus—

"I won't, then, if you're not fond of the idea," snarled Bakura, eyes dark. "But you'd better think of something fast. They've breached the sixth floor; they'll be on us in minutes."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

_The castle is under attack. _ She'd barely made it from her chamber, had arrived in the study barely in time to sever the rope ladder to the minaret and ward the room against aerial assault. _The castle is under attack. _Twice that night, on her watch. It was almost unbelievable. And both times they had caught her unawares.

_Never again,_ she thought grimly. Ink was gritty in her mouth. "They'll be on us in minutes," hissed Bakura. He was spattered with the stuff, hair and skin stained green.

Ryou stared between them, shivering.

_Think, Mana!_ she urged herself. _The answer is staring you in the face; you know it is. We can't fly because we can't match their speed in the air. We can't switch; they'll trace us and follow us in seconds. There must be a way to erase that trace—short of teleporting there's no escape—_

_Lady Isis' river-blue eyes were steady against the dark shine of the gold at her brow and throat. "I would speak with your master, too. Please give this to him."_

The answer hadn't been staring her in the face—it had been sitting in her pocket. "A portal," she gasped, and Bakura turned a scornful eye on her.

"Portal?" he snapped. "Have you gone mad? _Leave _the underworld?"

She slipped a hand into her apron and felt it sitting there—cold and smooth, the ornate scalloped back heavy against her thigh. She had the niggling sense that she'd forgotten something, but pushed the thought away. "Not the underworld," she said. "We'll leave the study. We can open a door into another castle—"

"But that's impossible," said Bakura.

"No!" said Ryou. His eyes were bright with hope and she knew he'd understood. "It's entirely possible—all we need is a conduit, a link to some outside place. Portals to the mundane lands work because something mundane has been set nearby—trees or statues or even human bodies. All we need is a bit of something—" He gestured at the study. "You've got books and parchments—all sorts of things!"

"Fool!" snarled Bakura, and Ryou recoiled. "Portals need glass, water, reflective materials! I've nothing in this study but a window and Shaitan knows where it was made—d'you want to end up somewhere in Khemet, in the middle of a bloody desert?"

Ink was oozing steadily from the papyrus.

Mana drew the hand mirror from her pocket and snapped it open. "I know exactly where this will lead," she said simply. The Ishtal crest glittered on its back: the eye of Horus set in tiny, swirling opals.

Without another word Bakura seized the mirror from her and began murmuring over the glass. The reflection of his lips rippled and blistered; he breathed over the mirror and its surface misted and turned molten, white-hot.

There were shouts and bangs in the corridor outside, followed immediately by the hollow moans of three traps rushing to life. She exchanged a stricken glance with Ryou.

"Soul-boy, come here," said Bakura, who had gone very white but sounded unperturbed. "Hand, please." He closed Ryou's fingers firmly over the handle and cupped the boy's other hand under the frame of the mirror. For a heartbeat Bakura stayed like this, with Ryou flush against him—then he bent his head and murmured in the boy's ear, "Watch your reflection. Don't think of anything but getting away."

Ryou bit his lip as Bakura guided the mirror to his face. "See you on the other side," he said, with a shaky sort of smile, and Bakura kissed his temple.

Ryou's nose touched the glass. Then he was gone, and the mirror was falling. Bakura caught it deftly and held it out to her. "You're next, Mana-doll." They were trying to knock in the door. "Better hurry."

She stared at the outstretched mirror, unseeing. Horror choked her. _The book—the book—I've left the book—_

She could see it in her mind, sitting benignly at her night stand beside her cap—it was only the fourth floor; surely she could retrieve it—surely the portal would last until then—

"Mana?"

"The book," she said faintly. "I've forgotten the book—Mahaado's book—"

Bakura's bone-white face registered confusion. "What," he began, but she was already spinning away from him, throwing runes that splintered through both the door and the first angel behind it. "Leave it!" he screamed after her. She ducked the debris and sprinted into the darkness of the hall beyond.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

It seemed the angels—there were four or five yet standing, and three either dead or groaning on the ground—had not been expecting a mad rush; before any of them could react she had felled two more of their number and was past them, tripping down the winding staircase. She did not grab at the banister and leapt as many steps as she could—there was no telling what Bakura had booby-trapped on this level.

There were two more in her path, dazed in the aftereffects of some kind of illusion; she set two epicenters at their breastbones and snapped her fingers, leaping over them as they fell.

She staggered; amulets flew from her pockets and tumbled down the stairs in front of her, ringing and shattering. She'd lost her shoes somewhere during the insane flight and the fragments of stone and glass cut deep into her feet, but no matter—

_The book—the book—_

_Now_ they had regrouped and seen her fully, and no doubt analyzed her techniques; they were hot on her heels—

A scimitar swung at her face, catching her on the cheek; she had run straight into another party of them, a group of three just emerging from the fourth floor corridor. Forgoing the runes, she let out a terrific yell and smashed a black-magic blade into their midst, a wild swing that scored no hits but parted them and left her path free. She plunged onward. She could make it—it was only a little further now—

_The book—the book—_

She slapped her palm against the wall and shouted for the door-guard she hoped hadn't yet been triggered. The stone seemed to ignite under her hand and she threw herself around the corner—there were two waiting for her just inside her door, blond and youthful—they had thrown the book onto her bed and she lunged past them, gabbling a spell for blindness—

Mana cried out as scimitar skimmed along her back, cutting her uniform down the side and leaving a long gash across the spine. The injury was not deep; she kept running.

_The book—the book!_

It was in her hands; she tripped and pitched forward into her bed, striking her head against the wall. A scimitar strike hewed the mattress between her legs in two and set the bedclothes aflame. She formed a feeble rune; angelic magic wrapped around her wrist, tightened and twisted—

Lucifer-Bastet, who seconds ago had been curled comfortably under her pillow, gave a pathetic mew and coughed fire, and in the next moment Bakura had come through the doorway and, stepping over the charred bodies, scooped the little cat up, depositing it unceremoniously in a pocket.

"You stupid girl!" he snarled. She snatched the mirror from him at once and pressed it against her cheek—the world inverted itself—

"You can't bring him back if you're dead!"

His words drifted after her as she fell, the sound of splintering glass echoing dimly around her in a place where there was no time, only cold.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

In the immense, full-length mirror Ryou's reflection looked sick with fear, gaunt and wide-eyed, with hairline cracks running from ear to ear, chin to knees. He clutched white-knuckled at the mirror's frame and breathed. _They're coming. They're coming._

The torches in the room had erupted to life when Ryou stumbled out of the mirror, rubbing blackness from his eyes. He was sure he'd tripped some kind of alarm but had no care for it.

_They're coming; they've got to be coming. _The fractures were spreading rapidly outward.

"Mana!" he cried. "Bakura! Hurry—hurry! The glass! The glass is going to break!" He held the frame in two taut hands, wanting to beat at it, wanting to scream. Why weren't they coming? Had the angels defeated the last of the traps and overpowered them—? Had the hand mirror broken—were these tiny cracks preventing them from crossing over? Terror strangled him. "Bakura—Bakura, please!"

He was answered with the sound of his own rasping breath.

_Calm down,_ he snapped at himself, releasing the frame with an effort. _Bakura is as selfish as they come; he wouldn't sacrifice himself to save anyone—he let you through first because he knew he'd be following—_

The mirror crackled and he leapt at it. His reflection had disappeared—in its place there rose into being a weird, indistinct form, wavering back and forth. It was moving swiftly toward him; another ragged breath and it had become Mana, golden hair hacked short, uniform falling from her bloodied shoulders. Her eyes were wandering this way and that, blind to him, as if unsure of her way.

"Mana!" he shouted. "Mana, can you hear me? This way—listen—follow my voice—"

A moment later her hand plunged into the air, groping about for the frame or some other handhold. The surface of the mirror rippled around her wrist. He seized it and heaved.

With a silvery tinkling the mirror released her. She lurched forward and fell hard against him; he hooked an arm around her waist to support her, careful of the raw, bleeding wound on her back. "Bakura—?"

"Coming," she panted. The fractures had extended almost to the edges of the mirror—

"Break it!" The cry had been Bakura's. Ryou caught his breath; the ache in his chest had returned with a vengeance.

The silver fiend lunged out from the mirror, swayed, and fell coughing to his knees, blood running down his chin. "Break it!" he yelled at Mana. "Bless you! _Break—the—blessed—mirror!_" He choked and bent forward, shaking with shallow gasps, unable to draw breath. Blood spattered across his clenched hands.

Mana, face pale with pain, staggered toward the mirror. New shadows were flitting across the shivering glass—long fingers extended toward them, magic blossoming at their tips—the flames of a scimitar—

_"Break it!"_ screamed Bakura. Mana wavered, trembling hands on the verge of a rune.

Ryou leapt past her and drove his knee into the very center of the glass.

The mirror rippled again, trembling on the wall—the network of cracks exploded to the frame. A jagged piece fell from the corner, then another. Fragments burst in all directions, slashing across Ryou's arms—then, with a shriek, the mirror shattered, showering them all in sand and diamond dust. An extinguished scimitar clattered to the ground beside Bakura's convulsing shoulders.

In an instant Ryou was next to him, thrusting the scimitar aside. Relief had buckled his legs. "Bakura," he said hoarsely, and then Bakura was kissing him, needy and desperate, mouth salty with blood—

A jarring stream of curses issued from the far corner of the room, and Ryou jolted away. "Shit!" said the boy standing in the doorway, watching them with his mouth agape. "Ryou—?"

Ryou stared. The torchlight shone pale-gold on the newcomer's hair and purple in his eyes, which were wide and incredulous. Ryou felt some of that disbelief echoed blearily in some deep part of himself that had been silenced, temporarily, by the animal need to survive. He felt drained—delusional, even. He would have accepted in an instant that this meeting was only a hallucination, but Mana slumping beside him and the sourness of Bakura's blood on his lips made any further denial impossible. "Malik," he said, and tried to smile. In the next moment he had fainted dead away.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

A/N: C'mon, are you saying you didn't think the Big Five was behind this one, too? The Big Five is behind _everything._ Even Kaiba has learned! Am currently in Canada; there is no telling when the next chapter will come. But, as you know, I am very determined to see this story finished by the end of August.


	18. a curse on this house

FAUST  
yuugiou fanfiction  
ryuujitsu & co.

chapter eighteen: a curse on this house

Disclaimer: Saying Yuugiou belongs to us is like saying Peter the Great was four-foot-eleven. Let's not be ridiculous.

A/N: I continue to battle that sad affliction, writer's block. Sorry for the ridiculous wait. I guess we're all dreading the ending (which will come eventually; I haven't thought that much about the grand conclusion. I am in particular worried my plot twists will seem small after so many years—_years_! can you believe it?—of build-up).

Also—perhaps I have griped about this before—why does my plot keep developing porn! Hopefully no one minds.

itftc:

"if aliens ever really tried to contact us, it'd be through the internet. then 4chan would probably scare them off"

--Pintsize, of QuestionableContent

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

The town in Ryou's dream had a bit of Bavarian outpost gone horribly wrong—an unfortunate mishap caused mostly by the castle at the end of the lane: a castle looming tall and menacing, doing its best to look like a rustic cottage and absolutely, miserably failing. White-plastered and overgrown, it was twined with equally vicious-looking climbing roses, more thorns than flowers. He saw that these blood-petaled monstrosities had overrun the ivy, which clung in fading patches to the main structure. He knew that the land beyond the humbler huts and shacks that surrounded him was frost-ruined and barren; he had walked through them, earlier. These were lands he had traveled—the Eastern lands—

Something hot was in his hands; liquid sloshed. "Go on," coaxed a woman's voice. "Yeh'll need a bit of heat in these parts, and jes' look at yeh!"

"Brandy," Ryou heard himself croak. His voice and the gritty, raw pain in this throat surprised him. "Brandy," he repeated, more to hear himself than anything—the rasp was familiar. "Who—?" He brought the tin to his lips and drank: his mouth burned hot and then it was sweet, honey-sweet, and good. He took another gulp.

"Good, hmm?" said the woman approvingly.

"Mm," said Ryou, draining the mug. Warmth was spreading gradually outward in a single pleasant wave. "Thank you—"

"Have another, then," she said, and, neck tingling, he looked up and saw that it was his mother. She had a threadbare quilt spread in front of her, apparently ready to cast it over his shoulders. The bar and the light and the mock-Bavarian castle were evaporating slowly away, until they stood together with darkness all around, watching one another. Then the quilt was gone; his mother clasped her hands together. She was wearing the sweater and brooch they'd buried her in, he saw.

"Mum," said Ryou, in blank disbelief.

"This cross," she whispered, "is very important to me. All right, Ryou? It's very important to Mum. You mustn't ever take it off. It's my present to you and you must never take it off."

She was pulling it from her neck, huge and gleaming and silver. He remembered its weight on his breastbone and he remembered the scar it had left—a scar that had since faded and disappeared. The cross.

"I've been very careful," said his mother, detachedly.

"This is a dream, then," said Ryou, and his voice echoed around them. _This is a dream, then, a dream, dreamdreamdream._

The cross dangled from her fingers, glittering as it swung—back and forth, back and forth. Ryou watched it, mesmerized, and his mother watched him. She was gliding closer—gliding ever closer.

"Take it," she said tonelessly. "Take care of it. It will protect you now that I can't—"

"I promise," said Ryou, and he was fourteen again. He'd been sitting at her bedside for days, waiting for his mother die. "I promise; I won't ever take it off; I'll keep it safe—I'll—" His voice cracked; he swallowed and reached out for the cross.

_You will work for me. _

Magic wrapped about his body, searching, arcing like lightning through his veins. His right hand went rigid and the cross fell through fingers that were twisting back—

_You will go to Dahlia. _Ryou wailed as his index finger shattered, skin sagging loose. He fell forward and gasped, eyes rolling, trying to ride out the pain. _You will go to Dahlia and I will find you there._ The fourth finger bent and broke and he sagged over it, choking, acid at the back of his mouth—the spell at his tongue shuddered and became a cry as his thumb shivered and spun in its socket, snapping at the base. Magic manipulated the ruined joints, ripping away fingernails and bending ruined digits into the torn flesh of his palm. _You are insolent but useful; you will go to Dahlia and establish yourself, and then you will come to me._

He could not find the strength to pull away from the blackness clawing down his arm, circling his wrist—he screamed and writhed and screamed again, gabbled for Lady Kuru, but to no avail and no intervention. The curse dove into his withered hand and spread into the veins—

"Ryou! Fucking gha'bi, wake up—_Ryou!_"

Ryou opened his eyes and saw stone and intermittent starlight over him, saw Malik gaping at him with concern and uncertainty warring in his dark face. He realized he was clutching at his right hand and abruptly released it, and thought it might be better if he played it cool, like he hadn't been having the worst nightmare of his life. "The, er, the cart—the cart's stopped. Have we reached the auction site—?"

"Oh, fuck," said Malik faintly, staring at him in horror.

"Agh," said Ryou, somewhat less faintly, memory returning like an anvil to the forehead. "I'm sorry—disoriented, no idea where I am, actually—really glad to see you, though. We aren't in Pegasus' castle, are we? Where's Bakura?"

Malik blew out a noisy breath. "Shit!" he exclaimed. "You had me scared for a second there. Screaming your head off. Forgetting things. Shit. Fuck. Argh."

"Bakura?" said Ryou, this time more urgently, pitching his voice to carry over Malik's muttered swearing. "Mana?"

Malik looked like he was about to ignore him and go on ranting, but reconsidered at the last moment. "Downstairs," he said sulkily. "He's talking with Lady Isis. And if Mana is the demoness who was with you, she's there, too. She's okay, but—" He looked pale. "Something tore up her back. She's lucky her spine wasn't hit."

"We were attacked," said Ryou flatly. Blood spattered across the floor. . ._Lady Isis._ "They've probably burned down the castle by now." _Downstairs talking with Lady Isis. And Lady Isis is—_

_"Shaitan! My brother is going to have a fit."_

Ryou shot upright and grabbed for Malik's hand, pumping it up and down when he finally got hold of it. "Marikku's sister! Oh, Malik, you made it! You made it!" _We made it—we're safe!_ "You're with Marikku now—is he here? With you?" Laughter, irrational and delighted, bubbled up. So Malik had made it after all, and Malik would shelter them!

Malik grinned. "Yeah," he said. "Yep. But it almost went to hell getting here, you know? It was a fucking mess! Want to hear about it?"

"All about it," said Ryou.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Isis had seen her fill of corpses over the years. She'd even seen some cleverly enchanted ones—rather convincing as live demons if they weren't asked to speak or move. Gaunt, bloodied, and sufficiently gray in the face, Bakura could have passed quite easily for a reanimated cadaver had he not been sipping water and rubbing fitfully at the bones of his right hand for the past quarter hour. Well, she supposed that a particularly _talented _sorcerer might have been able to achieve that level of mobility. . . .She cast a glance to his left, where Kismet's Mana sat bandaged and silent, eyes downcast.

They'd sat in much the same way, she remembered, some years ago—herself, her brother, and Bakura. "The Ishtal house holds itself in your debt," she'd said, sounding cold though she did not mean to be. Bakura's appearance had shaken her, and there was the matter of that cloak he'd had folded across his lap.She'd seen those patches before._ But he—he was pale and whole. The war had not touched him—as it had Marikku, who concealed the many cuts across his jaw and chest with cosmetic magicks and hid the larger, more fearsome gash down his spine with a dark cloak. "Marikku tells me you've saved his life once or twice in battle."_

_"Once or twice? It was at least ten times," said Marikku, as Bakura said, "I was repaying similar debts, Lady," and Isis smiled._

_That was long ago and leagues away._

"Well?" she said. "Shouldn't you be telling me why you came barreling into this castle at two in the morning, shattered my wards, destroyed an heirloom mirror, and bled all over my brother's carpets?" Patching the wards for the fifth time had required magic she hadn't had. She'd had to draw on the castle's reserves and pull a bit of strength from Dahlia itself—selfish, but necessary.

Bakura's gaze had not left the back of his right hand. "If we're on that subject," he said dully, "I could ask the same of you—smashing up my dance floor like that. Brutal, really. Though I suppose it doesn't matter now.

"We were attacked," he continued, cracking his knuckles one by one. "A mixed regiment—elites and their underlings."

Something closed, vice-like, around her heart. "Angelics?" she said blankly. _It would explain their wounds. Oh, Shaitan! If Council hears of this, it's war. Unless—_

_Unless it was Council that sent them. . .!_

Something flickered at the edge of her vision. "Come in," she snapped at the shadow waiting in the doorway. _Malik should know by now that he doesn't have to lurk in the dark_—

"Oh," said the boy who'd tried to kill her that evening, the boy from the marketplace—Ryou, the doppelganger. He slipped into the room, wringing his hands. He had the look of a particularly skittish forest animal, lurking in the ferns. "Sorry, I wasn't sure—Malik said I should just—um." He dropped down beside Bakura and was quiet—or so thought Isis, until she caught his whisper, barely a breath: _Bakura?_ He took Bakura's right hand and held it, and Bakura inhaled rather more sharply than he might have intended to; Isis smiled despite herself. _Discomfited, are you?_

"I would say they hit us about an hour ago," said Bakura. "There were perhaps forty—more mages than foot soldiers, which I find odd. Very thoughtful of them." His eyes were gleaming as he looked at the hourglass, a grim smile playing at his lips. "With luck they'll still be combing the castle up and down trying to see what's become of us. The last trap is time-triggered. Bit explosive. Might level the study. Or the block."

The soul Ryou jumped as Mana jolted forward. Her voice was loud with alarm. "But your books!"

"Never mind my books," snapped Bakura. "Shaitan knows what they came for. But it's best they don't find it, whatever it is."

"Oh, Shaitan," said Mana weakly. Her fingers curled, trembling, around the text in her lap—a thin little leather-bound book that was soon to be, Isis suspected, the only survivor of Bakura's library.

"Oh, but—" Ryou seemed to be floundering. His green eyes were wide. "But Medusa?"

Bakura frowned and didn't reply.

"And where will you stay?" said Isis. "We cannot shelter you until this particular storm ceases to howl. Should they survive the blast there is even a chance that the angelics will trace you here. Friend you may be, but if you jeopardize this house and bring the family to harm—"_Marikku, the last of the line _was left unsaid; it hung in the air between them, heavy, spinning.

Bakura smiled again. "I thought it might be best to disappear," he said. "It seems we're being hunted, after all."

_He cannot._ The voice was not hers, not entirely—the crypt-dry murmur of her father and her grandmother and all Ishtal ancestors past. _He cannot disappear._

"I don't know about that," said Isis carefully. "Bekhara bin Elna. I don't think you're going anywhere."

Bakura's mouth twisted into a decidedly ghastly leer. "Oho, so that's why," he said, red smoldering in his gaze. "Excellent sleuthing, Lady Ishtal. But if you think I'm involved in this—this _shit_? You're wrong."

Isis did not flinch, though Bakura's aura had flared—enough so that she could taste it: myrrh again. "Perhaps," she said levelly. "Let's think back a good ten years, shall we, Bekhara? I think you tried to kill my brother. Perhaps you are still trying. You're Gozaburo's dog, and let's not pretend any differently."

Bakura's jaw worked soundlessly. Then he spat, "I'm no one's dog, Lady Ishtal. I never was."

Every fiber of Isis' being was screaming at her. _He doesn't deny it. He doesn't deny that he—_

"Dog, eh?" said Marikku from the doorway. "Hi, Bakura; you look like shit. Hi, Isis. What's this about killing me?"

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

"Mutt," said Kaiba, sounding exasperated. "What are you doing now?"

Jou twitched and nearly lost his grip on the pier. He was hanging by his knees and heels, legs twisted around the wood of the railing, arms free and straining outward. The whole of him was shaking. He had a section of a ship's docking rope wrapped around the length of his left forearm and was sawing at it desperately with a huge piece of glass, the remnants of a beer mug.

"Hsst!" he said. "Shut up or I'll fall."

"You'll fall anyway," Kaiba snapped. "What are you doing—for the second time?"

"This is part of—Pegsy's flotilla, isn't it?" Jou grunted. "Just—giving them something to—remember—us by. One ship—at a—time."

Kaiba let his breath out in a whoosh. He had to be tired, Jou thought, to be talking so much, and sighing, and pacing, and muttering. And not kicking Jou off the pier and into the water. A few times he had felt Kaiba hovering over him and had tensed, instinctively, ready to take the plunge.

"Immature," came the voice at his ear, and a hand seized him by the scruff of his neck. Jou twitched again and dropped his glass shard. It vanished from sight and hit the water with a quiet plunk. Jou cursed Kaiba's great-aunts to hell and back. The docking rope wasn't even frayed halfway through.

"Immature," Kaiba repeated, catching him by the collar now and hauling him backward. "Cutting the mooring lines? Really juvenile. We'll be here all night. Leave it be; I've something more spectacular in mind."

Jou, sprawled out on the pier, stared up at the demon's black shape, blacker still in the darkness.

"Oh, yeah?" he said, holding out a hand. "Diabolical?"

Kaiba pulled him up. "Yes," he said. "But it will have to _wait._"

"Wait?" said Jou, as they wandered back into the main streets. The windows were shuttered, the market road entirely dark but for two flickering lamps at either end. "Wait until—?"

"What do you think?" Kaiba said calmly. "Until I'm _king_. Dolt," he added.

"You feeling okay?" Jou muttered, adding a few choice words.

"What was that?"

Jou coughed and raised his voice. "I said, I think there's an inn over there."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

The explosion came only seconds after Marikku spoke, lighting the sky and catching them all in a strange tableau—Lady Isis, steely-eyed and determined; Bakura, eyes glowing with danger; Marikku, wearing a wary frown with Malik just behind him, rubbing sleepily at his face; Mana, grimacing in pain. Ryou supposed he might look just as worn out. Bone-deep fatigue gnawed at him.

_The castle is gone._

"How's it feel to be homeless?" said Bakura, far too cheerfully. Ryou looked at him sharply and saw that his eyes still glittered red; his smile looked sickly. "Hello, Marikku. You look awful, too. If you don't mind my saying."

"Marikku," said Lady Isis serenely. "Where have you been? The wards were down; didn't you notice?"

"Digging for some books that I thought might h—er, might be useful. For what we were researching." Kohl was smeared all up and down the left side of his face and he looked sheepish. "I might have fallen asleep, also. Er. It looks like you've got everything under control, though? What's going on?"

"Close the door and sit down," said Isis with frightening calm. "Bakura's here, as you can see, behaving somewhat more sanely than usual."

"Yes," said Bakura under his breath, pinching and picking at his fingers. "Just popped in for a bit of a visit, thought that while I'm sitting here bloodied and fainting I might as well pour out my soul to your dear charming sister. Spontaneously. Without any coercion whatsoever."

"What's happened?" said Marikku. He pushed the door shut but did not move to sit. Malik hovered beside him and knotted the fraying edges of his shift with jerky little movements. There was clean gauze wrapped around his arms and he seemed to be working up the courage to address Mana.

Bakura was sullenly quiet. _Oh,_ thought Ryou inanely. _Hand baskets. All going to hell._

"We were attacked," someone said, broken and tired, and Ryou felt something within him give a painful thud when he realized the words and that dying voice were his. Marikku's attention snapped to him; Bakura looked deliberately away. "Angels came. We escaped through a portal. The—" he frowned, worked his mouth "—the castle is gone."

"That sums it up, yes," said Bakura. "Isis is also under the impression that this is all some kind of complex ruse to assassinate her illustrious and most dignified charge, the very last of the line—why, that's you." Sarcasm, slow and bitter, welled from his every word and gesture. "Though why it matters Shaitan only knows—because _of course _the Ishtal line is foremost in the realm, bound to live on and triumph because its last surviving heir has taken a male lover and a human at that—"

"Bakura." Marikku had managed to grow quite impressively white. He pressed yellowed lips together. "Enough."

"We decline," said Bakura flatly. "Azhar."

_That _name, Ryou thought vaguely, and he saw that Marikku had blanched further, flinched a bit. _I know that name._ And he did—he had dreamed it—when?

"Marikku—sit down," said Isis again.

"I'll sit when I want to," Marikku said, without looking at her. "Bakura, that's not my name."

There was nothing pleasant in Bakura's smile now. "Oh, no? Pardon me. I could have sworn—"

"You wanted me dead?"

"Don't fuck around," Bakura said sharply. "I didn't. Isis. I may have mentioned this before—I am bloody and too blessed tired to be dangerous—this can _wait_—"

Isis snatched a small silver disc from the floor—a mirror—and raised it to the light. "A direct line to the Council. You'll tell us now, Bekhara," she snapped, and Ryou remembered the men in the study, the first merging. "Everything—eighty years and older. Who you are and what you want with the Ishtals. Now, or I'll call down the Seven."

Bakura sneered. "As though they could stop me! I'll turn you all to dust."

"Isis," Marikku interrupted, soothingly. "Isis, he hasn't been well. We shouldn't—"

"He'll say it now," Isis said.

_The air is _crackling. Ryou threw a frightened glance at Mana and saw that she had registered it, though the slump of her shoulders indicated she wouldn't be able to do very much in the event of an explosion. He bit the inside of his cheek, and suddenly drew blood as Bakura's hand slipped around his wrist.

_Don't_, he tried to say, and _I'm seeing gold_ and _stop_—

But the touch slid away like water, and the furious yellow obstructing his vision became porous and vanished altogether. Somewhere in the great castle, glass shattered. The mirror in Isis' hand seemed to ripple; then it dulled and crumbled, ash.

Isis' face drained to the same shade of gray; she stared at Bakura, aghast. Marikku was pale.

Ryou watched them as solemnly as he could, over shivering lips and the cold ache tightening in his middle. Bakura was slumped over him, fingers digging into his shoulders, breathing quick and shallow.

Suddenly it was too much. Ryou slid a hand through Bakura's hair and felt the jaw bones working, and turned to Isis. "Lady Isis," he flared, feeling stupid and protective and moments from some sort of breakdown, "don't do this. Please don't. It's—below you. He can't give you a coherent account anyway. It's entirely useless. Let him sleep—" His voice cracked; he shuddered. "They'll kill us if you hand us over and then you'll never_know_—"

Bakura kissed his neck, lips rasping against the skin as they parted. Ryou stilled.

"Listen to me," said Bakura into Ryou's collarbone, moist and muffled. "Isis. Have some thought for my servants; they're going to pieces. I won't run. Take my blood if you need insurance."

"No," said Isis.

"Isis," Marikku said, gently.

"I wasn't finished," snapped Isis. "It's not your blood I'll be taking, Bekhara. Soul?" And she took Ryou's hand.

Bakura started, began to snarl, but Ryou pressed the fiend's head down against his throat and let Isis slit his thumb cleanly across the pad, through the whorl of the fingerprint. He watched his blood drip onto the sleeve of her robe and seep into its fibers.

"Thank you," murmured Isis. Her eyes were wide a moment as she stared at him; then she remembered herself and blew at Ryou's hand. Soft heat shimmered over Ryou's thumb and healed the cut.

"Sure," Ryou said, quietly.

"May we go?" hissed Bakura.

"I will take you to your rooms," Isis replied evenly. "Come. Marikku, please remain here. We need to talk."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

"—nice little hole in the wall." Jou came in loudly and could have sworn the wallpaper on the far wall crumbled when he slammed the door. A small room, falling apart, twin beds. Kaiba dropped the key onto a dresser and went to the closet. His voice drifted back:

"Quiet, mutt. It's late."

Jou kicked off his shoes. "I know that," he muttered to himself, even though it was probably three or four in the morning. And Kaiba wanted to get the first train to Dahlia—again? They were fucked; there was no way. "Asshole." He undid the first three buttons of his shirt; reconsidered and undid them all, threw the shirt to the ground beside his shoes—and crawled into the bed by the window. _Ahh. Nice._

The shriek of springs woke him some time later. Kaiba was just getting in. Gray undershirt, face and hair wet.

"So why'd you really pick me?" Jou said, raising himself to an elbow. Ratty or not, the sheets were warm up to his neck, smelling strongly of some kind of flower—a nice change from the cool air outside and the stink of fish and salt.

Kaiba looked at him, calm and blank. "You were convenient," he said, with just the shadow of a sneer. "And very stupid. As I have told you before."

He reached out and flicked off the light.

The moon settled on them, bright through threadbare curtains. "Hey," Jou said, suddenly dry-mouthed. "Hey. Do you want to—"

He didn't have to see, now; he could _feel _Kaiba's eyes on him in the dark, cold and quiet, and shifted uneasily. The mattress squealed beneath him—and Kaiba's mattress creaked too, along with the floorboards. Jou swallowed hard.

"Kaiba?"

A brush of lips, then a harder press, another squeak of the mattress, icy hands pushing him down. Jou groaned and Kaiba's weight settled smooth and heavy on him.

Grinning, he fumbled around under Kaiba's shirt and discovered that rubbing along the ribs made the demon go taut. He wondered if Otogi had figured this out before him. Kaiba's hair was damp against his cheek.

"You know what I think?" he said, helping Kaiba out of his clothes. "I think you picked me because I'm just so damn adorable. Yeah?"

Kaiba gave a single hard pant. "Hardly," he returned, biting Jou's ear.

Jou shuddered. "I really want to see you," he said. "Moon's not enough. C'mon."

A pause and creak and the light went back on. Kaiba's parted mouth looked almost purple; his eyes were lidded, his hair nearly black and his face white and the skin of his chest whiter still—like ivory or marble or some kind of stone statue, he sat there watching Jou. The nipples were pink and tight. Jou moaned a little, under his breath. Sure, it was weird, but he'd fucked a vampire already—

"Better?" said Kaiba coldly.

"Please come here," Jou said weakly. "Oh—yes. Yeah."

Kaiba was shoving him down when another thought occurred to him; he fought Kaiba's arms and wriggled back a bit. Air whistled as he tried to speak; he cleared his throat. "You aren't—you aren't on some kind of suicide run, are you?" he said suspiciously. "Because—I mean—you're—ow! Fuck! What the fuck!"

A long, frigid silence. Jou felt gingerly at his bleeding lip.

"Of course not," said Kaiba finally—very hoarsely. "Idiot."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Jou said hastily. "It's just—you're acting—weird. Right now. Really weird."

Kaiba seemed to take a long breath. "Am I."

"By now you should have killed me, right? Cut me up or something? I mean, don't think you have to do this or anything. I mean, I know you're worried—about, um. About your brother. And. Well." Jou scooted back a little more and found that he'd gotten to the edge of the bed. "I'm sorry," he said again. "I shouldn't have—asked. Really bad timing. You can—the light—uh. Sorry."

He rolled onto his side and shut his eyes and tried to breathe normally. His face felt hot. _Fucking girl, Katsuya. It was getting good and you wanna know if he really likes you or—fucking GIRL._

Behind him Kaiba inhaled deep and slow. Two times.

"I," Jou said into his pillow, and stopped. "I mean—do it because you want to, not because you think you have to or—or because you _miss the fucking bloodsucker, okay._"

Kaiba's hand was cold on his stomach. "Were you dropped on your head as a child," the demon said, deadly-soft, "or is this brand of stupidity common to your species?"

Jou choked a little when the hand slipped down. "Medical condition, actually," he gasped. "Nn. You're talking a lot. Tonight."

"Turn around and look at me," Kaiba said.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

The stone around her window was warm and sandy, rough to the touch. Mana pressed her face against the windowsill and felt the night air on her shoulders. Her back, only slightly hunched, was beginning to sting already, the half-healed skin protesting at such a stretch. She let out a long sigh and winced as she straightened.

"You should get some sleep, don't you think?" said a voice from the end of the corridor, and her heart started to drum. "It's the first time in a week or so, isn't it?"

She turned carefully around, fingers already curling. Then: "Oh. Master Bakura."

"I see Ryou's sleeping. Like the dead." He nodded in the direction of her room. "But you're having none of it. No shuteye for Mistress Mana?"

She smiled, a bit ruefully. "If only. Back hurts too much."

"Sleep on your stomach, then," Bakura said. He came up beside her, rested his hands on the windowsill, and looked out into the city, whistling. "Great view they've got. I wonder if we can see the crater from here? No, wrong side of the castle."

Mana followed his gaze and found herself looking at the forest. "Wrong side," she agreed, softly.

Bakura's voice was quiet. "You know about Kuru Elna."

Mana stared at her hands. She had played the scenario out in her head before—a paranoid daydream where Bakura would say something to that effect and then kill her or, worse, dismiss her. But the castle was already gone, all its precious books with it, and her back was hurting. She was past caring.

"Not much," she said. "How did you know?"

"You weren't exactly subtle," said Bakura. "Summoning sprites in the minarets? And you didn't think they would leave a residue?"

There was a pointed pause; Mana blushed.

Bakura went on. "I didn't know what you were up to at the time. You're not stupid and you do thorough research, so I let you be. It was the book that told me—that little leather one. Clearly Mahaado's. You wouldn't have leapt into a waiting legion of angels for anything else."

At that, Mana laughed. "No," she said, "I suppose I wouldn't have." She turned to look at him. "Are you going to kill me—now that you know what I know?"

"I might," said Bakura. He wasn't smiling. "Tell you what; I'll trade you. Tell me everything you know and I'll fill in the rest—about Elna—Mahaado—all the ugly gritty details. Go on—do we have a deal?"

Mana took a deep breath. "A deal," she repeated, slowly. "A deal is what got you into trouble in the first place, isn't it, sir?"

Bakura whistled. "Sharp, poppet!"

She stared at him. "You won't elaborate?"

Bakura met her eyes and gave a single reptilian blink. "Surely that's not all you know, my sweet?"

"Elna," she continued, "was a den of thieves in legend, and a hidden village to this day. Its lands are destroyed but its people live on. Master Mahaado said they must—Elna burns in their blood. You are one of them; you are also the berserker of eighty years past. And—"

"And?"

"And you're dying. Aren't you?"

_Now _Bakura smiled. "I may be the very last of Elna," he said. "Have my books helped you at all, Mistress Mana, in your search for your dead master's soul?"

An ache began in her chest; she ignored it. "You're uncomfortable," she countered. "You don't want to talk about—what happened before. But you want _me_ to tell you everything—that's not really fair, is it?

"I told Marikku this when he came to visit and you were raving—Ryou has power over you. When he touches you, you stop bleeding. You stop coughing; you come back to yourself. He saved you when the Big Five came—Ryou and not Sara or Medusa. But you can't bind him to you; he can leave you whenever he pleases—or he can be taken away, snatched. And that frightens you."

"Oh?"

"Yes," Mana said. "You've said it yourself—you're going mad with fear. If he leaves you again, there will be nothing to save you, and you know that."

Bakura snorted.

"I saw your face earlier," Mana whispered. "When Lady Isis took his blood. You could have killed her." _Because she _knew_ about you. Because attacking Ryou is exactly the way to get to you._

"And my deal?" said Bakura. "_The _deal."

"_The_ deal?" said Mana. "You've made several. But the one that's killing you—?"

Bakura's smile widened. "You want to hear it firsthand, I suppose," he said, eyes gleaming. "Sorry to deprive you; They cut out my tongue. Metaphorically speaking, of course. A binding of those who made the worlds. Neat trick, isn't it? Why don't I tell you about Mahaado?"

_Another diversion_, Mana thought, but let it pass, because she _did_ want to know. "All right," she said. "Yes. Please."

Bakura waited until the searchlights had made three full rounds. "In a month's time he knew what I was," he said then. "But he thwarted himself by being so blessed trusting. They came from behind? His attackers?"

There was blood floating in her mind when she closed her eyes—blood and a body. "I don't know," she said. "I—I only found him. _Shaitan_."

"He was wrong about my purpose," said Bakura. "It wasn't my aim to raise the dead. I went to him to have my hand healed, yes. I'd fallen into bad company, shall we say, and if he fixed my fingers he'd set me free of some unsavory duties. But I'll be plain, poppet. I went to Mahaado to kill him."

Mana sucked in a breath. "No," she said.

"He engineered the slaughter," Bakura said. "And Shaadi with him—Shaada the priest as he was then. Shaitan's best men, sorcerers. They went to Mahaado because they had read his publications—theories of magic transfer. So he taught them. Naïve little scholar, thinking nothing of practicalities! So happy to see interest in his research! The lord Shaitan Himself asking after him! He signed on to the project—what are the lives of thieves and beggars? Worth dust. Worth nothing. He had only to think of the prestige before he forgot them—did he think there weren't _children_ in Elna? Oh, but the experiment failed; a hundred people lost." Bakura laughed. "Every day I was with him I could have snapped his neck—I could have flayed the skin from his back and slit his tongue. Even now I think of it—and my hands curl—"

"Bakura," she said sharply, and he seemed to startle.

"Your blind and stupid master," said Bakura, with a venom that made her shudder. "He should have known—once he realized my origins—he should have known I meant to kill him. And when I didn't—he thought I was good. Why do you think he sent you to me? When you arrived on my doorstep I could _see _it, the brilliant fool—'A good demon, Bakura,' he must have thought. 'Could have killed me and didn't.' And someone so noble would surely take care of his little Mana. I'll tell you why I didn't kill him, Mistress Mana. Have you heard, perhaps, of Gozaburo's rebellion?"

"Yes," said Mana, acid in her throat. "It came to nothing. Shaitan was not in the palace."

"Gozaburo Kaiba was a fool of another sort," said Bakura, "and a madman. But he prolonged your Mahaado's life another ten years when he rebelled. He'd bound me to him by the curses laid on my hand and could summon me at any time. I killed twelve men that day—junior sorcerers on Shaitan's staff. There were some that were too young to have been part of the massacre, but they had gotten in my way. His rebellion might have come to something if I hadn't torn him open. Right down the front. I remember."

Mana made a soft sound then—brief and horrified.

"It was another demon from Elna who undid the last curse on my hand," said Bakura. "Bin Farouk, a grave robber's nephew. It was three minutes in to the Big Five's betrayal. They imprisoned me a month and then packed me off to war.

"Right, then," Bakura said, after a long silence, "that's my story. You've time for an hour or two. Go to bed and stay away from that little book. You're my first lieutenant in this mess and we can't have you tottering about half-asleep when all hell breaks loose. If all goes well we'll leave this place tomorrow."

"Leave? Where will we go?"

Bakura's teeth flashed in the dark. "Shaitan knows," he said. "Lady Isis has been dreadfully hospitable, but she may yet murder us in our beds. I'd rather not chance it. Goodnight, poppet—oh. Have my room, why don't you? Two halls down."

"He won't like it," Mana said. "He's sleeping."

"I'm sure he won't mind a brief interruption," Bakura said cheerily. "Stop prying, Mistress Mana! You may live longer." Humming, he slipped into her room and shut the door.

Mana went to the next hall and ignited a brazier with a puff of breath. _Sorry, sir. You're not telling me everything yet. And until then—_

She pulled Mahaado's book from her pocket, thumbed it open, and muttered, "Bekhara!"

The pages began to rustle.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Isis had never known her brother to be so incredibly _pigheaded._ Determination was one thing, and obstinacy another, but this behavior was downright_stupid._

"Sister, you're being unreasonable," he was saying.

"_I'm _being unreasonable?" she shot back, glaring at him where he sat on the divan, her golden brother, shining and confused. "But of course! Let's hear you say that when he's finally managed to cut your throat and it's your bones they've burned you down to—"

Suddenly it was too much. She thought of her father's bones, the vivid red of the silk they had bound them in, and brought her hand to her mouth, bit.

Marikku was on his feet. "Isis—"

She looked away from him and made a mental survey of the wards, tracing the magic beading around the castle perimeter—and then taking stock of the bumps of her spine. She spoke to the wall. "I'm all right. It's late, Marikku. I don't want to fight. Here—" and she turned, held out her arm "—this is what I wanted to speak about."

He blinked at it. "I don't see. . ."

"Look at the sleeve," she said.

Marikku peered closer, then took the fabric between his fingers. Rubbed. "Oh," he said. "But this is what you took from the soul, then?"

_Light dawns,_ thought Isis in fond exasperation, but she started with alarm when Marikku—instead of nodding sagely or looking to her with admiring eyes—released her sleeve and fell back onto the divan, all but howling with laughter.

"Oh, Isis," he said. "Oh, what have you done? You've pissed Bakura off and sent him into the worst fit of paranoia—but here you are acting in his best interests—aha, we've caught you in the act, softhearted in the end—"

She stared. "Marikku, what do you mean?"

"It's too funny. Here's Bakura going out of his mind with worry that you'll use that blood to control or kill his soul-slave, but really all you wanted was the blood to analyze!"

"Ah," said Isis, slowly. "I hadn't thought of that."

Marikku's laughter trailed off. He sat up and met her eyes, and she read, with disbelief, the horror in his face. "Shaitan. . .you really—?"

"Yes, I really," she snapped. "Marikku, you seem unable to realize that this demon is a _killer_. That he has worked for the deepest enemy our family line has known in centuries. That you are—"

"The last of the line, yes," he interrupted, and his voice was harsh. "Isis. You need to accept—hear me out. I will not marry. I will have no heirs, no mistresses, no bastard sons. It doesn't matter if you preserve my life another eighty years or three hundred; when I die, the line _dies with me_. There's no one to blame—not Malik, not yourself. I'm the one who's done wrong—in Father's eyes, not my own. You supported me when I told him the truth and you let me go to war, but I don't think you ever _accepted _this reality. And now this thing is eating you up—you're making yourself sick with it. Can you even remember how it was when you lived in Uster? Your projects? Your life outside the dynasty and this fanatic obsession to prolong it?

"And do you think I don't know what Bakura is, Isis? Don't you remember that I was with him—killing beside him—in that war? I've bloodied my hands and I've made blessed awful decisions, and I've survived. Can you understand that I'm not something that needs protecting? Gozaburo—Isis, don't look so. Gozaburo is dust. He can't hurt us—but you're letting his memory destroy you. Crush it and leave it. We can't afford to dwell."

She could barely hear him over the sound of air shaking in her throat. She closed her eyes. "You can't ask me to do this," she said finally.

"I've had enough," said Marikku flatly. "You're clinging to this _fantasy_—"

She flinched.

"Please, Isis," he said, softly now. "I'm your kid brother now and always, and I'm blessed worried about you—Shaadi is, too. This isn't healthy. It hasn't been for weeks. At first I thought you were just caught up in it like I was—solving this puzzle that Bakura's become, helping him. But suddenly you're dredging up a ghost, shivering like Gozaburo's a saint come to collect you from hell—you hardly acknowledge Malik anymore and you treat Bakura like a criminal though he's saved both our lives—do you even remember who it was who killed Gozaburo, Sister? You told me yourself that the knives of the Big Five did little good."

The battle was dimming and blurring in her eyes—the raw hum of magic, Gansley's triumphant shout, sitting beside Shaadi in the cold sunlight—and through it all, Gozaburo's sick smile, his voice: _Your brother is next—_

"No," she whispered. _I can't remember._

"You told me it was one of his own," Marikku said. "A demon in a patched cloak. A demon with white hair."

She drew a long, quivering breath.

"Be happy, Isis," said Marikku quietly. "It's all I want."

It seemed an hour before she could speak again. "The blood," she said, and felt a strange ache in her chest as his eyes flew to her, bright and expectant. "This soul's blood does merit some analysis, I think."

Marikku's smile came like sunrise, slow and pink. He took her in his arms—Shaitan, he'd grown tall—and held her, tentative.

"Thank you," he said.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Ryou had dozed for an hour before the dreams came back. When Bakura pushed open the door he was sitting cross-legged on the bed, staring at nothing in particular and thinking about his mother. What had she said? _'I've been very careful.'_

Light flooded the room; he looked up.

"Hullo," he said to Bakura.

"Insubordination," said Bakura, shutting the door and vanishing into blackness. "When you and Mana collapse tomorrow, don't expect me to carry you. I'll leave you here and let Isis boil you in oil for her supper."

"Malik wouldn't let her," Ryou replied evenly. He wondered if Bakura could see his smile in the dark. "Where's Mana?"

A vague rustle; maybe Bakura had waved a hand. "Here and there. Sleeping, one hopes." His voice was pointed.

"I—" Ryou began, flushed, and faltered. "Bad dreams. I couldn't."

"Ah," said Bakura, like silk, and Ryou could _hear_ his smirk. "Well. I suppose that's different." There was another rustle and the bed sank a bit, and Bakura's fingers slipped over his chin, brushed his lower lip.

It must have been the hour. Ryou opened his mouth.

Bakura hissed and jerked away as though burnt. "My, my. That's a bold move." He took Ryou's hand. "Did your human friend teach you that?" he breathed, and chuckled as Ryou began to protest. "I'm only joking. It's very nice."

"Don't joke," Ryou mumbled.

Bakura kissed his thumb. "Do you know what Isis did?"

"Not the specifics," Ryou said, trying to turn around. Bakura clucked his tongue and held him still.

"Even if we run—" Bakura's arms curled around him, head on his shoulder "—even then, until that blood has been destroyed, you're a hostage. I don't know Isis' capabilities, but a spellcaster could use that blood to get into your brain, control you, poison you—rot a limb. Isis is insane when it comes to her brother—you think she'll get rid of your blood once we've left? Never. She'll keep it to use against me when we least expect it. You're a liability, soul-boy. Did you think you were being noble?"

Ryou took a deep breath and said, with calculated flightiness, "I didn't think I could still bleed."

It _had _surprised him, that his blood could still flow—red and wet though his heart had stopped. Though he was dead. Though he was _made of spare magic_ and ready to fly apart, disappear, at any moment.

At that particular moment, though, he felt solid. _Bakura is anchoring me._

Then Bakura's hand found the cross-shaped scar and slid left, and Ryou felt something in him give a dull thud—his heart? "Funny, that," said the demon, mimicking his tone. "But there are things in this world that can bleed without veins—cry without souls. Successful imitations of the living would take amazing talent to. . ._construct_. . .wouldn't they? Do you agree, hmm?"

Ryou realized he was shivering. "I—yeah."

"You must think I'm a fool," said Bakura quietly. "Don't lie to me. _What are you?_"

"I—"

Bakura spoke over him. "The more important question, I suppose, is _whose _are you? Shaadi's, is it? It wouldn't surprise me. He's the only sorcerer of merit these days. Fondness for plots, that one. You'll have to tell me how he did it, if you can remember. What's your first memory? I'm curious—did he clothe you himself and send you off to market—"

"You know what the contract says," said Ryou, in a shaking voice. "I'm Bakura Ryou, sixteen years old now and forever, property of one demon Bakura. Born not of woman," he added, and began to laugh, high and hysterical.

_I want to live. Not normally—there's no chance for that. But in a castle with you and Mana and Sara. That's happiness, isn't it? But Sara is gone and so is the castle. I want to live. . .Shaadi's? _Shaadi's?_ That's. . .ludicrous._

"Ludicrous," he repeated, rasping. He wiped at his eyes. "I like you. Really. And I'm so tired. I want to sleep. Bakura. I'm a plague on your house. Like. Like a plague on your house. I'll tell you what I am. I'm the pox—"

He hiccupped twice, and then Bakura put a hand over his mouth.

"All right, sleep, you pestilence," said the demon. "You're incoherent." He lay back, pulling Ryou with him, and murmured, "We were only beggars in Elna. The lowest of castes—grave robbers; cheap, dirty fools. Did you know, I've killed a hundred thousand angels? I can't remember a moment of it."

After that he was silent, his hand heavy on Ryou's breast, and Ryou closed his eyes and slept.

Some time later he woke again, gasping, Bakura snuffling in his ear. In his mind, the sun was gleaming over extinguished scimitars. The wind moaned over the broken bodies of the dead. Someone was pleading: _Give me Arthur._

The realization descended cold and clear, and he fought a chill.

_Bakura doesn't remember, but I do._

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Standing in the sunlight, Jou gritted his teeth and tried not to snarl. Opening his mouth would displace the crisscrossing scars Kaiba had set, with spotless smirking precision, across both lips. Then Jou remembered the cold fingers that had lingered at his jaw, freezing up his face, and had to grin a little—a tiny creaking movement that earned him an elbow in the side and a strange look from the ticket demon.

They sat side by side on a bench and Jou amused himself by poking Kaiba's leg with his foot—he was feeling bored, not silly, thank you—and ducking Kaiba's feeble attempts to swat him away.

"Fool," hissed Kaiba, without moving his lips. Jou let the edges of his ancient eyes crinkle. He touched Kaiba's knee and was rewarded with a startled twitch, and suddenly he was starting to feel kind of smug.

Kaiba had lost an eye for the occasion, and he'd aged both their faces a good twelve or fifteen years—no cosmetics there, just some moisture manipulation and severe dehydration. The skin of Jou's face did feel a bit like a husk of sorts, and _fuck_ did his eyes burn.

He'd gotten a "besotted crossbreed imp" thrown in his face that morning in the bathroom, pressing Kaiba up against the mirror, but nothing more extreme, and no blows or burning shoes.

He looked at Kaiba and sniggered, looked at the ground and let the corners of his torn up mouth lift.

He had no idea what was waiting for them in the city, or how Kaiba planned to storm a castle with a two-man army (he had a few ideas himself, involving nonexistent grenades and pre-modern siege artillery and also an overripe cantaloupe) but it was four hours to get there and they'd secured a private compartment because Kaiba could be a damn good flirt when he wanted to, and the ticket girl had lapped it all up—

Kaiba's knuckles brushed his hand.

_Fuck _yeah. The sun was in his eyes and the train was pulling in, and in that moment everything was so fucking perfect he could have cried.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Agh, chronology is shot to hell. The war was eighty years ago—that's in human years. I will now use the convenient excuse that _time _is what gets shot to hell between the worlds, and that demonic years are nothing like human years for the simple reason that that is how it must _be _for this story to make any sense at all. Um.

A/N: Sorry about the ridiculous emotional rollercoaster! Closing more optimistically, though Jou has no idea that everything is about to blow up in his face, woohoo! And Ryou's just realized something, as Isis will next chapter.

I'm going to estimate that we end around chapter twenty-four—another six chapters. I like twenty-four; it's a nice number, I think.

For all of you who've been reading this for three years (almost four!) and those of you who came back to read it, and those of you who have just started reading, thank goodness you've long attention spans and much patience. I hope the ending, when or if it happens, does not disappoint you.

In the coming year I will also be editing parts of Faust, so that the plot flows smoothly (and actually appears Entirely Planned and Outlined). Just a heads up if you are rereading.

Links to my original necromancer fic will appear in my profile in the next month or so, if anyone is interested.

Thanks.


	19. interregnum

FAUST  
yuugiou fanfiction  
ryuujitsu & co.

[chapter nineteen: interregnum]

Disclaimer: Saying Yuugiou belongs to us is like saying John McCain is the defending US men's figure skating champion. Ahaha. No.

A/N: Boy oh boy. I wonder if this chapter will come out before the end of the presidential race. I have no idea where this is going. (A full five months later—WHOA YOU GUYS, WE ELECTED OBAMA!)

Perhaps I should not have told you that. But this is for Kit, tireless hunter of passive voice. Thanks for all your continued encouragement.

itftc:

"I CAN HAS WUN RING TO ROOL ALL?"

~nicholas ridiculous

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

The Crown Prince of Hell could not hear his breathing over the sound of his heart. He had been running since the morning, from one trouble into the next. He had been running for months. And now he was running back into the heat of it, dragging Yuugi with him, into the thick of it. The blood of the Council, splashed across that wide white room, remained burned behind his eyes, dark and shining, the edges flared with green. Somewhere, beside them in the night, he knew an angelic army was marching to kill.

At that moment pure white light erupted, conical, into the sky, and he yelled aloud in despair. It was nothing like the wide blue flare of an azor mine. This, Atemuyami understood, was a concentrated hit. It was not enough to level the district, but it could level a block, level a castle—Bakura's castle.

They were too late.

He tumbled to his hands and knees, landing in a heap, Yuugi with him. Dimly, he was aware he was screaming. Yuugi's hands were on him, bewildered, ever gentle, trying to soothe. The claws of a newly Fallen dug into his shoulders, his back, lingered at his spine. He did not have the heart to shake them off, but lay curled on his side, shuddering, enveloped in his own sorrow.

He had led Yuugi back into danger, and the world was falling down around were very alone. Bakura had helped them once—might have helped them again. And now he was dead. There was nowhere left to turn.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Ryou woke to an uneasy dawn. Bakura had stolen all the blankets and lay huddled and wormlike in the depression at the center of the bed. From the lumpy corner of a sheet one pale, thin hand protruded; it had, in the night, found and closed about Ryou's wrist. But the demon's grip was gentled and loose with sleep, and the circle of his fingers was not the living manacle that had trapped Ryou so often before. Ryou managed a smile at this, and the frost that had settled in the muscles of his face creaked and seemed to thaw. He sat up as slowly and carefully as he could—to his surprise, the mattress felt his weight and actually shifted—and stared unblinking into the purplish light beyond the window. The air felt charged—electric. It felt like a storm.

His mind was strangely calm, thoughts sitting cold and pragmatic like stones at the bottom of a winter lake. There were no disturbing currents, no swift tumbling waves of panic. He watched the growing light and felt Bakura's hand, ever loosening, and breathed.

There were small ideas—the sand sifting, pebbles turning. _I am breathing,_ he thought to himself. _My lungs are intact and moving._ He thought: _So I am alive. I _must_ be._

A rolling stone, the frenetic shivering of a lake-weed: _I think, therefore I am. I _must_ be._

Driftwood: _I must see Mana._ She had suspected from the first, and she had always been watching. And she was trained: she would have realized things that even Ryou—in this moment of stark clarity—had not realized. Where Bakura would rage or speak in riddles, Mana would question. Reason it through. He was not her plaything—not lover—but friend, family, equal. _I'll tell her everything,_ Ryou thought. _We'll go through all the possibilities, and then—and then—when we've exhausted them all and we know unfailingly, beyond the smallest doubt—_

_Then I'll tell Bakura. And—_

Bakura's hand, completely limp, slipped away. The lake erupted, burst its borders, drained into emptiness; Ryou jerked, seized the hand roughly in his own and replaced it, curling the fingers once more around his wrist. The bed shuddered and Bakura stirred, opening an eye.

"Soul," he whispered.

Ryou realized he was panting. _He can't let go. If he lets go, I will end. _"Sorry," he said, hoarse.

Bakura groaned under his breath. He burrowed back under the blankets, tried to roll over—and reemerged, confused and frowning. Ryou's hands had locked, chain-like, around his arm.

"I'm sorry," said Ryou again. He did not move.

Bakura met his eyes, soft and sly. There was smirk playing about his lips. Ryou leaned over and brushed his mouth against the cold white face, not so much kissing as rubbing, touching, memorizing. The skin was damp and whole. Their breath mingled, sour.

"Cogito," whispered Ryou, rough and frightened, "ergo sum."

"Oho," Bakura murmured. "That's what this is about, then." But after a time his free hand came up and settled at Ryou's nape, drawing him closer.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

They breakfasted in silence. Marikku apologized for the absence of good wine, serving flatbread of mysterious origin directly to their mats. He kept no servants and no silverware ("I live here four months out of twelve, normally"), and they ate with their hands—Mana one-handed, with slow, thoughtful bites, Bakura nervously, tearing his to shreds and swallowing very little, and Ryou not at all. He was watching Bakura.

Gradually, he became aware Marikku was speaking to him. "I must apologize for my sister," the demon was saying, sharp blue eyes fixed on Ryou's face. "She is—not herself these days."

"Very few of us are," said Ryou, and meant it wholeheartedly. Still, he winced—it had sounded like a joke—and hoped Marikku would not take offense at imagined lightness of tone.

But Marikku laughed. "Too true. Among our party there's one in particular who worries me. . .what's the matter, Bakura? Not bloody enough for you?"

Bakura gave a weary, debonair grin. "Flour and water, my love?" he said, with affected grandeur. "I'm weak as a kitten and this will hardly change it. You had better put me out of my misery. No, indeed," he continued, "if this is all we are receiving in the way of Ishtal hospitality, I'm blessed relieved we aren't staying for supper. I expected better from a lord of the West. A raw and bloody steak."

"Watch your tongue, cur," Marikku said, smiling. "You speak to one more terrifying than a mere lord of western lands."

"Oh?" said Bakura. "And what are you, milord?"

"Nothing less," Marikku declared, "than the lord of garbage, the king of filth. And there's much of it to be found in Dahlia, you can be certain."

Bakura chuckled. "All alleyway bins answer to you and you alone."

"A ranged and deadly force is my army of stray cats," Marikku said. "Be warned."

But there was no snappy rejoinder. At the mention of cats, Bakura had fallen silent once more. He was thinking, Ryou knew, of Medusa.

Then Malik threw down what remained of his bread and demanded, "And are you all alone in your fucking ivory tower, my _King_?"

Marikku turned to his lover. "It's possible," he said, and his smile now was of an entirely different sort—teasing and private. "Being the evilest of kings, I'll have you locked in my dungeons for my weird and wicked purposes." He whispered something into Malik's ear that sounded suspiciously like _And keep you howling into Sunday_, and kept whispering, hot and low.

Malik shoved him away and swallowed, red-faced. "Well, g-good," he managed.

"Hullo!" Bakura called suddenly, with aggressive cheer. "I hope that's not the Council I see behind you."

Malik jumped. Marikku twisted about and Mana raised thought-glazed eyes. Ryou looked up to see Isis, regal in a blue over-robe and quite alone in the doorway. She looked as though she had not slept.

"Hardly," she said acidly. "If you have eaten, I would have words with you."

Bakura eyed the scattered remains of his breakfast. "I've done the best that I could," he mused, somewhat inanely. "Considering there's no marrow to suck." He gathered the pieces together and tucked them into his pocket, then rose fluidly to his feet.

Isis frowned. "Not you, Bekhara bin Elna," she said.

Ryou met her gaze—steady, contemplative—and understood that she _knew._ He bowed his head and was about to push himself up, but found Bakura's hand on his shoulder, oppressive.

"It's all right," he said. "I think it will be all right."

"It's not," said Bakura, through gritted teeth. "It won't."

"I'm not finished," said Isis coolly. "Mistress Mana, I would have words with you as well."

Mana stood, grunting with the effort. Ryou put his arm carefully around her waist and she leaned gratefully against him.

"Won't you eat something first, Sister?" said Marikku, glancing nervously between them.

"Will this suit, Bekhara?" said Isis, ignoring her brother.

Bakura's face had closed, white and blank. His eyes glittered. "They are my servants," he said quietly. "Taking both, do you expect to set me at ease?"

Isis smiled coldly. "Rest assured," she said. "They will be returned to you, exactly as they are. Come," she said to Ryou and Mana, "we will make use of my study." And to Mana, but meant for Bakura's ears, "Let us see what can be done for your back."

Bakura said nothing else. As they departed down a long corridor, Ryou glanced over his shoulder and saw that he had resumed conversation with Marikku, his gestures huge, swooping, and entirely exaggerated.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Jounouchi wriggled in his seat, trying to get comfortable. They were going through a rattling tunnel. It was another hour to Dahlia, and he knew he should take a nap, but a weird nervous energy was making it hard for him to anything but sit there and bounce. Kaiba's eyes were closed, his arms characteristically folded, legs crossed.

Jou looked out the window, into blackness. "You think he's waiting for us?"

"Who?" said Kaiba, without opening his eyes.

"Otogi. You think he's waiting?"

Kaiba sneered. "I doubt it. The vampire is long gone, mutt, and he's not coming back for you. You'll have to get used to it."

"Yeah, fuck that," Jou said, folding his own arms. "I bet he's standing in the depot right now, waiting for us. He'll say, _Not so punctual this time, Kaiba-boy,_ or something stupid like that."

"Not at all likely," said Kaiba.

Jou frowned. The train rocketed into open countryside. "Look, can you just, I don't know, entertain the possibility for a second? Have some hope, why don't you?"

"My hope, mutt," Kaiba retorted, "is that he and I never meet again. We'll make better progress without him."

"Your soul is dead and withered," Jou said. "Okay. Whatever. We'll drop it since you want to drop it." He leaned forward. "But at least tell me what the fuck we're doing once we hit the city."

"We have options," Kaiba said. "Explosives. Swords. Poison."

"I want catapults," Jou said. "Huge-ass catapults."

Kaiba raised an eyebrow. "No."

Jou swore. "Why not?"

"When storming a magical fortress," Kaiba said, with deliberate sarcasm, "catapults are generally ineffective." He added, deadpan: "If Pegasus had cooperated, we might have come with a fleet."

"Stupid fucker," Jou muttered.

"He made a mistake," agreed Kaiba, courteously. "He'll pay for it when the time comes."

"What a dickhead," Jou said, and suddenly they grinned at one another, full of savage promise.

"All right. Anyway. Catapults are out," Kaiba said, all business again. "We're getting in and getting out. There's no need for a siege. Since the death of the previous Shaitan, the palace has been deserted and the guard long disbanded. Even so—"

"I'd feel better if we were both armed to our fucking teeth," Jou said. "If we're not getting catapults."

Kaiba smiled. "I see that we agree."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

The winding corridor was curving slowly downward, gritty beneath their feet. They had left behind the windows and were now walking by the lamplight. Whatever sound they made was swallowed up by bulging earthen walls.

"We must be deep underground," Ryou said tentatively.

"Yes," said Isis. She moved with confidence, her robes barely fluttering in the dead air. "It is deep in the foundation. Magic unbound to the wards preserves this area. These are ancient halls," she added. "They were built, in your human terms, three millennia ago, interregnum, by a lord in our line when the first of the great castles of Dahlia were constructed. He found tower rooms precarious, ill-guarded and unsafe. Leave towers to stargazers, he said. It was the height of our power: Ishtal was regent. We have declined ever since."

Ryou could do nothing but nod.

"I am sure Marikku has already done so on my behalf," said Isis with quiet dignity, "but I must apologize for my conduct. I was. . .ungentle.

"I know what you are thinking," she said, when neither Ryou nor Mana made reply. "It is your master Bekhara to whom I owe the apology." Her smile was sharp and vicious in the dim light. "But I prefer to make him sweat, at least for a little while longer."

At last Mana spoke. "My master bites," she said, "when he is cornered."

"So I have noticed. But if he bites my brother he will have Malik to answer to," said Isis, with no small amount of humor.

Mana exhaled, a soft, relieved _whoosh _of air.

_Wow,_ Ryou thought. _Wow. She knows it all. The right words to say, the right gestures, to set us at ease. _But he sensed that not all that Isis said was the result of masterful improvisation. She had spent the night reviewing their meeting, analyzing them, anticipating their actions. If she was not watching him closely now, it was because she had done so already and considered him from all angles in her own mind: what he would say, what he would suspect—and how best to counter it.

The corridor spun left, but Isis did not follow it. There was a door there, embedded in the wall, and she pushed it open to reveal a cavern, its craggy walls lined with more lamps and—shelves.

Ryou stopped dead, and Mana drew in a startled breath. "Oh, _Shaitan_." She slipped free of Ryou's arm and hobbled forward, dwarfed by the texts that rose two full body-lengths above her head. "Shaitan's _teeth_." She sounded near tears.

"Welcome to my study," Isis said. She closed the door behind them and plucked a lamp from its holder. "I believe the particular honor of discovery belongs to Mistress Mana?"

Mana, already running a loving finger down the worn red spine of a book, faltered. She glanced at Ryou.

Ryou slipped his trembling hands behind his back. _It ends now._

"I think she knows, Mana," he said. Mana's hands fell slowly to her sides.

"Bakura—" his throat ached to say it "—Bakura knows, too."

A little tremor seemed to run through Mana's body. "Oh, hell," she said, with a soft, bitter smile. "Cat's clawed out." She turned to Isis. "_How? How_ did you realize it?"

From the depths of her robe Isis produced a triangular cut of fine cloth, stiff with old blood. "I thought perhaps my eyes were playing tricks on me," she said briskly. "But a few tests proved that there is little wrong with my mind—and that the problem lies with _you_, Bakura Ryou, and the false blood on this sleeve. Marikku and I had already been researching the causes of your master's peculiar ailment, but this crushes all that I had thought before.

"Now, do sit. We have much to discuss."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

It was mid-morning when the storm broke over Dahlia. Yami and Yuugi, wandering aimlessly through the crowd, were caught in the open. Few demons scattered in the face of the thunder—there were protective spells, after all. Truthfully, there were _more_ demons emerging into the lightning. Rain ruined azor mines, dampening the force of the blasts; rainy days were the safest to walk in the streets, and only the weakest—in magic and mind—scurried for shelter. Today the crowds were thick not only on market street. The sheer density of packed bodies had closed off some sections of the red light district. _These _had come to gawk, standing in a tight, murmuring ring around the crater that had once been ANKH.

The explosion, they were saying, must have been massive. It had torn a gaping hole in the center of the Red Light District, sinking nearly the entire block into oblivion and shattered concrete.

Yami walked without an umbrella enchantment, with Yuugi clinging to a fold of his cloak. It was getting colder; beneath the unnatural humidity there was a hint of frost. He felt unsteady, unhinged. Water dripped down his face; he remembered the wet days spent on the ferry to Arachne, and the slim white hands, lavender-dusted, that had bestowed the tickets.

Bakura was dead, and the Council overrun. And Yuugi—

_Father in hell, what do I do?_

"Yuugi," Yami said. "There are things—"

"You are tired?" interrupted the angel, with a strange wide-eyed look. "Wannnt rest?" Yami remembered how the accent had cleared after the Fall—gone away and made a reappearance, getting thicker and thicker.

The sharp black points of Yuugi's fingernails pricked him, and Yami came to a halt at the mouth of an alley. He took Yuugi's hand and held it tightly in his own. "You've got claws now," he mumbled.

"Hae?" the angel said, questioning, and Yami seized him, practically by the hair, tipping back the little head and pressing their mouths together.

Yuugi gave a little gasp and yielded, and then—and then, _devils!_ he hadn't heard that ever before, that sound from Yuugi. It was wanton—almost wrong—and Yami drew back. Yuugi was looking at him, a little bit lost, pink-cheeked.

"I'm sorry," Yami said. "You must be cold."

_Shaadi told me. . ._

They stood there a moment, facing each other. There was blood running down his hand, where the Yuugi's claws had pierced the flesh. Cold awareness wiped out the damp of the rain and the fuzziness in his skull.

There was a hard lump in his throat but he knew it had to be said. _Like father, like son. _"Yuugi, you've been lying to me."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

"I have my own theories," Isis said, sitting back, "but let us hear your story first."

Mana chuckled, still bitterly. "I must have been out of my mind last night not to have noticed what you meant to do. When you took his blood."

Isis' smile was wholly unpleasant; Ryou shivered. "Oh, no," she said. "It was indeed my plan to kill or incapacitate you. I had gathered from Bekhara's behavior that to do so was to strike a crippling blow against him." She shrugged, a fluid ripple. "It's just a well I had not—it would have been a waste of magic and effort—and hell knows what would have happened."

"Thanks for that," Ryou said. He had realized anew how formidable Isis Ishtal was. _Have we really seen her angry? She's like a cat—playing with us. We're lucky to count her as a friend._

_For now._

Isis set the lamp down on her desk. Ryou looked toward the spluttering light, and she said, "But I think, Ryou, when we first met you, too, suspected nothing amiss."

_Ah, here we go. Deep breath._

"Nothing at all," he said. "But there were things. . .that happened." The fingernails of his right hand dug into his forearm, a clean, steady pressure bordering on pain. _I'm still here._ "There was an incident—when I was younger. What I knew of myself I forgot—and I don't think my caretakers wanted to re-enlighten me afterward." A shudder ran through him; his head jerked sideways. "I killed my sister. Only—" another jerk "—only I don't think we were. . .I think she was like me. Another one like me. Thinking, breathing, bleeding—I still remember her—the screaming.

"She was magic—_knew_ magic. And I ate her all up. The same with Bakura—only that time—the first time—I felt he was the one swallowing _me_. His need was the greater."

Isis stopped him. "You said the _first_ time?"

Ryou looked at his curling toes. _Let it out. Tell her. Work it out. _"It's happened other times. When one of us was drained—last night, when the castle was attacked—that was the third time. Mana was there."

_Coward!_ he shouted at himself. _Look up. Look at her._

But Isis' attention was for the moment diverted; she turned to Mana, waiting.

Mana began tentatively. "I remember their arms," she said. "Ryou's left and my master's right. Those arms had become one, joined from the elbow. Then the hip—wherever Ryou touched."

"What's it like?" Isis asked him.

_Better than sex_, supplied a hysterical voice in Ryou's mind—and then he realized that he'd said it aloud. "I mean—well—"

"Don't fret," said Isis, smiling like a crocodile. "I know the nature of such—incidents.

"I'll let you know—as Mistress Mana perhaps has not—and perhaps it will relieve you of some of your embarrassment—that these feelings are caused primarily by the _incident _itself. It feels good because it's a trap—it feels good so that you _don't_ want to stop. You know what awaits a male spider after copulation," she said frankly. "But I'm sure he enjoys it—right until the last moment. That's the idea."

"That—" _can't be. _

Mana had said Bakura was drawn to him—Bakura had as much confirmed it. Guarding him—jealously. Ryou remembered the evening in the kitchen—the black of Bakura's eyes. _You're mine_, Bakura had snarled.

_It can't be because of this—this _thing—

"I'll tell you," Isis said. "Bakura does right to fear. You are—it seems—a construct of magic. You're a loose canon in this city—and every day you are in incredible danger. Consider the severe toll war has taken on the magical life-force in Dahlia. In fact, you're in danger right now—coming within range of _me_ when I myself am so weary and drained of power. I could snap you up right now, if I desired it," she said—and laughed, so delightedly.

"Could you?" Ryou said, like a challenge, and he heard Mana suck in her breath. "Or—_do_ you desire it? Are you thinking, _Closer, closer_—are you seeing gold?" _You see? It's not the same. It can't be the same._

_We aren't insects. This isn't mindless. Take it back. Take it _back.

"Gold?" said Isis. There was a pause, and then she put her head in her hands and laughed again. "Shaitan. Of course. It's been staring me in the face."

"What has?" said Mana—loud, belligerent. Ryou started as she brushed past him. She had come up beside him, tensed to spring, should Isis make good on her offer to "snap him right up."

"Shaitan," Isis was murmuring. "I was _right._ Well, in a way. If you look at it upside-down and sideways." She turned to Mana. "You've heard, I suppose, of Helga and Dargus."

From the way Mana blanched to translucence, Ryou surmised that she had. _He_ had never come across the names before.

"Magic, when strong," Isis said, "is tangible. It can be seen and smelled and tasted. With angelics, who develop differently in the womb, this kind of strong magic isn't unusual. But what we in the underworld call 'golden pairs' are rarer than rare. I know of two cases. Helga and Dargus are the historically documented pair, brother and sister. And the other set—can you name them, construct? you were schooled in these tales. They were never apart.

"I'll give you a hint," she said. "_Incest. _But that is only the nature of the magic. Separation causes madness—Mammon's madness, as scholars have called it."

"Beliaf," said Ryou slowly, "and Mammon."

The crocodile smile returned. "Correct. Devils—brothers—lovers. As the legends say."

_Incest is inevitable, _Ryou thought, _when all you have in a mad new world is your siblings._

But all he said was, "Mammon's _madness_?"

Mana broke in. "But you can't think that Bakura—Bekhara—and Ryou form a golden pair," she argued. "There are—flaws. For one—"

"No," Isis said, "I agree absolutely. There are _huge_ inconsistencies. The ages, for example. Bekhara bin Elna and Bakura Ryou are not twins—not, at least, by birth—and I will explain in a moment. They are nothing like Helga and Dargus, Beliaf and Mammon, who were conceived simultaneously, by coincidence or design, and born before the magic surrounding them could be severed. Sharing magic with another does not mean a limitless power-source—quite the opposite. From birth onward, the balance is delicate and insanity always a possibility. What one gives up, the other must take—and later replenish.

"The stuff of legend, if done well. And praises of their deeds are quite often sung, even today. But for Beliaf and Mammon, the great devils of our world—Shaitan's own brethren—that was enormous power to be shared, and the balance all the more precarious because of it. Add Mammon's own jealous love, as lore masters will tell it, and it's a small wonder He went mad when Beliaf took the magic and fled with it."

There was a silence. Ryou wondered if, somewhere above them, the storm had broken—what Bakura was doing.

"But," said Isis, "I digress. So! Bekhara bin Elna and Ryou cannot be a golden pair. That was the conclusion that I also drew. How indeed are they a golden pair, if Ryou cannot use magic, magical construct though he may be? How is it that a construct and a demon can be at all linked?

"But I have realized it now—and the answer is _easy_. Am I correct, Ryou, in saying that you have been having dreams—memories—that are not yours?"

There was a dull roar in his ears. "Yes," he said. "The memories are Bakura's."

Isis smiled dreamily. "And he himself has no recollection—which proves it, definitively. Ryou—you _are_ a construct, magic that has inexplicably taken living, breathing shape—I am sorry if you wanted me to tell you otherwise. But as to your origin—as to your origin. . .

"It was no sorcerer in the mundane realm that created you—I venture to say such a feat is beyond the skill level of any in that world. From the first, _you have been Bekhara's_. You are _his_ construct, shaped of _his_ magic. There is a force, you said—a voice, a will—that is not entirely yours. It springs up from within you and calls you ever toward him. It tore you from your human life—why else should you begin the journey underground? Why else should you trade in your very essence to come to a hellish place—with no idea what would become of you? Stupid. Idiotic. But you paid no heed.

"It was that force that called you—from the very beginning—drawing you toward the magical, toward hell—where your other half lived."

"Drawing him to consume his sister—" said Mana, breathlessly. "Hell!"

"Yes—she was another piece of him—of Bekhara. It was not murder, and she was never his sister. Just another part, needed to complete the whole.

"There is a force in Bekhara that does the same. He craves you for reasons he cannot explain—and to give in means gold, ecstasy, and the possible death of self. He has no control over it—which must certainly terrify one so accustomed to playing puppet master. The same current that pulls you runs also through Bekhara, never whole since that great battle eighty years ago. Pulling, pulling, gathering strength—for years longer than you remember existing. At a demonic auction, in a crowd likely of hundreds, it finally brought you together.

"You _are_ Bekhara. Bekhara's lost magic has come back to him at last."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Yuugi recoiled, scoring four lines across Yami's arm—Yami grabbed him by the wrists. "I want the truth," he said. "You aren't who you said you were."

Yuugi stared up at him, bright and blank. "Hae. . .?"

"Cut it out," Yami said, low and tight. It was a colossal effort to keep his voice from shaking. "You're more than fluent. You're not a child. And your grandfather isn't a magician at court—"

"Hae, _w-wo bu_—"

"He's not your grandfather—he's your _regent_—_you're—_"

Yuugi tore free and clamped both hands over Yami's mouth, and it was absurd—truly absurd—given the height difference. There were tears gleaming in purple eyes as Yuugi said, "_Don't_. _Don't_ say it. I want to be here. I want to be here with you. I _Fell_—"

Yami's turn to recoil. "Shaitan," he said. "You left them—you left your people!"

The wet eyes flashed. When Yuugi spoke again it was without any trace of accent, any tremor. "And I guess this is you, valiantly taking responsibility—"

"Yes!" Yami exploded, too angry—_everything_ a lie!—and Yuugi fell back, shocked. "_Yes._ I am taking Shaitan-blessed responsibility. This is me—taking responsibility. That we are yet in the underworld is me taking responsibility. Do you realize—can you even fathom what you have done? _They have declared war on us_—on _my_ people_—_"

"You said they aren't your people!" Yuugi said, and there was a bit of the angelic left, slurring his words. "You said you wanted nothing further to do with them!"

He could not deny that. "I—I've changed my mind."

Yuugi made a soft, pained noise, nearly lost in the sound of the rain and the beating of Yami's heart. "Well, it's too late for me," he said, mouth trembling. "I've already—"

Yami cut him off. "_Why_?"

"You are my other half," Yuugi said. "Whatever doubts you have—remember that I Fell for you."

"How long have you been planning this?"

"I—" Yuugi's voice wavered. He slumped against the alley wall. "Years. Years. But you have to understand, Yami—" Bright purple eyes, full of appeal.

"I understand nothing," Yami said, and Yuugi's face crumpled. Yami looked away. "My dear royal _partner_," he snarled, "my _brother_, never doubt the extent of my love for you but I must question, with utmost respect and deference, your sincerity—"

"Yami," Yuugi said. "_Please_ understand."

"And I suppose," Yami said, as lightly he as he could manage, a horrible rasp, "your generals pushed you right along—"

"Please look at me," Yuugi said.

"I can't," Yami said. "_My lord._"

A heartbeat later he would have cut out his own tongue to stop the words. Yuugi turned from him—dodged his arm—stepped out from the alleyway and into the crowd. The rain and sound of the city seemed to part in front of him, drawing back for a moment. Yami saw him bend and dodge, stepping forward with purpose, and then he was gone like he'd never been.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

"You _are_ Bekhara. Bekhara's lost magic has come back to him at last."

There was silence. Ryou thought to himself that a thunderclap would have been appropriate—but they were too far underground, weren't they? He listened to the sound of his own raw breathing, in and out, in and out.

_Then I was meant to cease—here. The moment we met I was meant to vanish. But I didn't._

_But I can now—if I'm not careful. If I _want_ to—_

He knew very clearly that he did not want to die—he knew just as clearly that he wanted to be with Bakura always—watching him, watching over him. To vanish—to _merge_. . .it was perverse and _perfect_. What they had both wanted, from the beginning. Now, at last, things were clear.

Mana was watching him, hawk-like. "Ryou," she said, and her eyes were terrible.

He ignored her. "And if I should return to him," he said, in a voice that he pretended was not trembling and cracking, "if I should return, will I lose—lose myself?"

"It is more than likely," said Isis. "Unless you have felt your sister-construct somewhere within you in the years since she was swallowed—but as you yourself are incapable of magic, I will assume this is not the case. Bekhara will return to what he was before, haunted, hungry, but whole—more powerful than he ever was. And you will vanish—as if you never were."

Ryou closed his eyes. "And to do this—"

Mana grabbed him by the arms and shook him. "Are you mad?" she demanded. "There are other solutions. You don't _have_ to vanish."

Ryou let her rattle him around. "Mana, it's the only way."

"The only way for what?" she snapped. "Don't tell me you have to because it's 'natural' or the way it 'should be'—for hell's sake, we're _demons_. No one gives a fuck about the way things _should be_. There are _always_ loopholes. There is _always_ a way out."

"It's true," Isis said. "To my knowledge, Bekhara remains unstable only because he has lost _one_ magical support, not both. There was a grave faerie, was there not?" At Mana's startled glance she smiled. "It was at my suggestion that Bekhara obtained her. But—Mana is correct. There are loopholes—there are several. Some steadying spells maybe all you need, in truth. At worst, a bonding."

"At worst?" said Mana.

Isis nodded, untroubled. "Mm. Bondings between individuals are already complex, and though there are milder versions of the ritual in use today, we are not joining two demons in arranged, unholy matrimony. It will be the gluing of two pieces of magic together—two pieces of the _same_ magic—which, if you consider it, is what Ryou and Bekhara have been doing in their complicated golden dance, however unwillingly. To sew up the tear without causing Ryou's disappearance—that is where difficulties will lie. It _will_ hurt to try—but there are few other alternatives. A bonding, if successful, would be definite."

The humming in his ears was largely drowning her out. "But," he said, "theoretically—to _return_ to Bakura—can be done?"

"Well, yes," said Isis. "Though there is no _need_—"

He tore out of Mana's grasp. "_How?_"

"A stupid question," said Isis—bemused or annoyed, Ryou could not tell. "Once the process is triggered, all you must do is cease to resist."

"Then," Ryou said, "it's easy."

Starbursts erupted behind his eyelids and he staggered. Mana had slapped him. She stood heaving in front of him, wild, her mouth twisting as though she could not spit out the words.

He was expecting her to scream. Instead she said, low and furious, "Fucking _think_, why don't you? It is one tiny fucking theory full of holes. How are we to know this will solve Bakura's problems? If a bonding fails it's a world of pain for both parties. Committing suicide may do _nothing_ for Bakura—and like hell it's going to help _you_—you'll be _dead_."

Ryou touched his cheek, gingerly: it felt like a burn.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

The poison shop was much more crowded than Jou would have expected, with shopkeeper and a motley army of apprentices scurrying around filling orders—but then, they were in _Hell_. That demons were murderous bastards was probably a fact he should have recognized by now. Kaiba's smile, at the moment, was pure evil. There were all kinds of telltale signs, really.

"Belladonna," the shopkeeper's apprentice was saying, slicking a nervous hand across his impressive hairdo. He had pimples all across a scaly face, each of them oozing a different color of pus. "I'll need to see I.D."

"You flatter me," Kaiba said. Jou had a feeling the smile was meant to be professional and soothing. Professional it was—professionally _diabolical._ "Identification?"

"You heard me," the kid said, pushing out his chest and puffing absurdly.

Kaiba slid a single silver coin across the counter.

"Uh, that is to say," the kid said, pocketing the coin, "you didn't hear me. At all. Belladonna, and. . .?"

"And, uh, you know, those bomb things," Jou said. The kid gave him a withering look. Jou grinned back like a ten-kilowatt bulb. "You know what I mean," he said. "Shit that explodes."

"He means flash-potions," Kaiba said. "We'll have some acid as well. Twenty canisters."

"Dragonsbelly acid? Oh, no, sir, I'm afraid—"

Kaiba put another coin on the counter. "Please."

"Right," said the kid, with an oily smile. "I'll—I'll just be a moment, then."

He came back with a shoebox-sized package held gingerly out in front of him. "That's a right dangerous combination you've got there, sirs," he said. "Will you be paying in. . .?" He held out a hand, and Kaiba dropped a fistful of gold into it.

"Take the box," he told Jou. "And _don't_ shake it."

"Oh, yes," the kid said, beaming. "That would be a blessed bad idea, shaking it."

"Thank you," Kaiba said, all cold courtesy.

"Yeah, thanks," Jou said. "Much obliged." He wedged the package under one arm and got the door.

Swords they got at a different vendor, deep in the city. At this point Jou was huffing under the weight of several boxes and satchels, each of them filled with knives, leather holders, amulets, amplifiers, hell, even pepper-spray, of a sort. Kaiba strode ahead—carrying the explosive package carefully in one hand. It was a little bit ridiculous. It was also awesome.

"When can I put this shit down?" Jou panted.

"Right now," Kaiba said. "We're here."

"Uh, whoa," Jou said.

The sword shop was a literal hole in the wall, a narrow gap punched through pink brick. There was no door. Jou and his billion packages squeezed in as best as they could. Kaiba slipped in with his usual grace.

"Broadswords," Kaiba said. He gave his right pocket a tap. The resulting tinkle, Jou knew, came from a handful of pebbles and metal scraps seized just outside—they were broke. "We'll take two."

"Certainly, master," said the swordsmith—a skinny old woman, all of her wrapped in bandages, creaking as she spoke. But she didn't move—just stood there, staring at them, and Jou felt his heart seize.

_Shit_.

"Don't I know you?" the swordsmith said. Jou glanced at Kaiba—the disguise hadn't slipped, not a hair out of place, the scar still huge and ugly across his jaw. He looked back at the smith—she was blind.

One of Kaiba's hands came up slowly behind his back, curling into a claw. Jou felt the magic moving up through both of them, a wave of cold.

"I do," said the swordsmith, feeling her way toward them. "I certainly do. You're Ibrahim's kin."

Kaiba's shoulders went up and up and up. The hand behind his back was starting to glow. Jou stepped up beside him and grabbed it, forcing the claw out of the fingers.

"You've grown," she said.

"You—you know Ibrahim?" Kaiba said, sounding strangled. Jou gave his hand an appropriately comforting squeeze. Kaiba hissed and tore out of his grasp.

"I did," said the old woman steadily. "Long may he sleep in flame."

"So," Kaiba said quietly. "He's dead."

"Aye," she said. "Twelve years ago. A shame. He could have lived to see you like this, standing so tall."

Kaiba was silent. He was looking all around the place, past the gleaming steel and into the darkened corners—and then he closed his eyes, and Jou ached for him.

"Was it two broadswords you were wanting?" the old woman said. "Take them."

"Your payment," Kaiba said, stirring. "I would not rob a friend of Ibrahim's."

"Nor would I," she said calmly. "Azor shrapnel bites me still. I am dying. I will be dead in days. Take what you will, and Hellfire guide you.

"I am Marjan," she said, as they were leaving. "When first we met, you burnt my hands with the cold of your magic. I have not forgotten it."

"Thank you," Kaiba said, low.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Yami walked. The first and second hours he walked after Yuugi, calling for him. The third he walked silent, and by the fourth he was furious again, and Yuugi forgotten. He had come across a band of angelics, moving silent through the twilight fog. Stragglers, he was sure. Remnants of those who had killed Bakura and destroyed his castle.

Yami threw fire from his palms, burning his own hands with the force of the blasts. He screamed his own name, the names of his forefathers. He called to the people of the underworld: rally around your king!

The streets remained empty. They brought him down within minutes.

"Do you know who I am?" Yami said raggedly, as they tied his hands behind his back. "I am the Crown Prince of Hell.

"Do you know who I am?" he said again, marching at the head of the column with a scimitar burning his back. "I will destroy you. I will bring my armies to your gates. I will crush your people into dust under my heel."

The angelics said nothing, their mouths thin in their perfect white faces.

"Do you know who I am?" Yami asked, a third time, and then a small, round demon in hat and black coattails was grasping his chin, examining him with a monocle to his eye.

"I do believe I know who you are," the demon said, smiling. "Thank you, commander. We'll take it from here."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Mid-afternoon they passed through the Red Light District and saw the crater. The shock of it fazed them both: even if Kaiba didn't let it show, Jou felt the false jowls in his face sag to his collarbone before Kaiba caught himself and seized the moisture in the air, salvaging the illusion. They were safe as far as their disguises went—plenty of moisture all around, after all, it was fucking raining—but they couldn't stop long.

Jou paused half a minute at the very lip of the disaster zone, staring down. There was no debris—there was nothing left. Relief was so thick he was almost giddy with it. Knowing he'd gotten Ryou out of there. Knowing he'd saved him. Then Kaiba tapped his shoulder, and they moved off.

They were ten blocks away on an empty, seedy street and looking for a place to crash for the night when Jou finally worked himself up to saying it. "You okay, Kaiba?"

"Why shouldn't I be?" Kaiba said. Jou could practically _hear_ his eyebrow raising. "Bakura's fate is of no concern to me. I mourn the loss of a potential ally, but I doubt he'd have been happy to see me again."

"That's not what I mean. I mean about that guy Ibrahim. Knowing he's dead and all." Jou winced. _Fuck, Katsuya, could have said it better._

"Ah," Kaiba said. He was quiet. They walked.

"Sorry," Jou said, at length. "That wasn't what—"

"Shut up," Kaiba said abruptly, and he spun around, his arm swinging in a blue arc, a dragon's head leaping from his fist. The thing that had been stalking them—a cat the size of a small bear—hissed and limped back, and its four green tails hissed with it.

"Snakes," Jou said blankly. "Right. Snakes. Holy fucking shit."

"Shaitan," Kaiba said, not quite standing down. "It's Bakura's cat."

He stretched out a hand, the dragon curling and twining around his body. The cat padded slowly toward him, eyes glowing green in the glare. Its tails lashed back and forth.

"Does it know you, or is it coming in for the kill?" Jou asked nervously. _Snakes! Holy shit, snakes!_

He remembered then that they had explosives, and that there were broadswords slung over his back. They were going to be okay. He set the boxes down, easy does it, as smooth as he could, and just as smoothly and casually reached back and got a solid grip on the hilts of the swords.

By this point the cat was at Kaiba's legs, and it was rubbing its head against Kaiba's cold hand, rumbling—_purring_.

"Well, shit, I don't believe it," Jou said. "It likes you."

"Do you know what this is, Katsuya?" Kaiba said, and his voice was thick with triumph. "This is a Gorgon cat. Each of its nine lives belongs to its master."

"Looks like this one's on its last life," Jou said, frowning. On closer inspection, the thing looked _beat_. The tiger-striped coat was sodden with rain, streaked with filth.

"Last four," Kaiba said.

Jou reached toward it. "Aw, poor thing," he said. He jumped as the tails whipped toward him and just as suddenly veered away—"Argh!"

Kaiba smiled, rather sharply.

"I guess we're taking it with us, then," Jou said, resigned. "I'll get the boxes. You—you keep it away from me."

Much later, in a room with a single lamp, bed, pillow, and not much else, after Jou wriggled out of his clothes and let Kaiba run cold fingers down his chest, Kaiba said, "I would have liked to see him again. I wonder what he would think of me, now, as I am.

"He was not a good man," Kaiba said. "But he was kind to me."

The demon cat was asleep at the foot of the bed, its dreaming tails still hissing and coiling. "Tomorrow's the day, huh," Jou said.

"Yes," Kaiba said.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

The dim light of the corridor seared Ryou's eyes like the midday sun. Isis, cool and composed, led them out of the passageway, down the hall, and into a family room of sorts, where Bakura stood, his back to them.

"Shaitan," said Mana, hurrying to the window. "_Snow_."

Bakura turned with a careless toss of his shoulders, his face blank, but his eye roved over them quick and critical, taking in every detail—maybe the smudges on their clothing, the determined set of Mana's shoulders, the cool amusement in Isis' face.

His eyes slid to Ryou, and Ryou looked down, burning under his gaze. _You _are_ Bekhara's magic. Bekhara's lost magic has returned to him at last._

"You certainly took your time," Bakura said finally, flippantly.

"Back again," said Isis, "and safe and sound, just as I took them." She stepped to the window, her hair dark against the blizzard and billowing against the cold wind. Her tongue flickered out between her lips, and Mana imitated her. "Salt. They are working the fronts," Isis said. "Then we are at war."

"You couldn't see past your nose," Mana said, sounding sickened.

"We have fire enough in Hell," Isis said, "to withstand this."

Ryou squinted into the swirling fog, where blue and red and yellow tumbled and glowed—searchlights. The skyline of Dahlia was lost to them, as was the street below. They could hear nothing but the steady wail of the wind across the sullen gray of the land, and even that was lost to them as the snow settled, heavy and oppressive.

"That is a fuckton of salt," Marikku said, making a face. Malik retracted his tongue, looking a little bewildered.

"I don't taste anything," he said.

"Amazing what a bit of salt can do," said Bakura jovially. "Well, Lady Ishtal, what are we to do now?"

"Bekhara. The angelics sent to kill you—surely they have not abandoned that hunt. I would recommend you remain under the protection of the Ishtal house, at least a few days longer, until the danger has passed. I will contact Shaadi to ask his cooperation."

"You mean that, Sister?" Marikku said.

"A gesture of goodwill," Isis said, "to prove my sincerity." Her hand flickered, and the swatch of cloth, brown with Ryou's blood, began to smoke and burn. Bakura hissed; Mana cried out, surprised. The lady Isis observed the burning with a placid stare. Within seconds the cloth had been consumed.

"Well, isn't that lovely?" Bakura said, smiling unpleasantly. "How very kind of you. And here I was so certain you wanted me gone—don't know what could have given me _that _idea."

"Some new information has come to light," Isis said. "It would be in your interest to hear it."

"Master Bakura," Mana began. The wind was growing wild, beginning to howl across the city.

Ryou touched her arm. "Please," he said. "Let me tell him."

A snowy gust blew screaming through the window.

Marikku started. "That's—"

It came again, now without snow, hot, spiraling around Isis alone, rattling the furniture and weaving through Isis' hair but touching none of the rest of them. The moan of the wind seemed to shake the room: _ISHTAL—ISHTAL!_

_"Kha!_" Isis said sharply, and the wind dispersed. She and Marikku glanced at each other, twin frowns.

"What is it?" said Malik, looking between them. "What the hell was that?"

"Shaadi is beset," said Isis. "I must go to him."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

A/N: A huge and very awed thank you to Yutaan, who has drawn more gorgeous fanart for Faust! You can find it on her deviantART profile at http:// yutaan. deviantart. com/ (delete spaces). I also point your attention to an upcoming MANDARIN CHINESE TRANSLATION of Faust, about which I am very excited.

I have no idea when the next chapter will arrive, but rest assured it _shall_ arrive, someday, if uni doesn't kill me! I may graduate before I finish this. But, uh. Pretend I didn't tell you that, either.

Thank you for reading. I hope you liked this chapter! There are only a few more left.

Happy holidays!


	20. para bellum

FAUST  
yuugiou fanfiction  
ryuujitsu & co.

[chapter twenty: para bellum]

Disclaimer: Saying we own Yuugiou is like saying Chopin was an ace Gundam pilot. Maybe in another life.

A/N: Right-o, it is currently early January. I have high hopes for completing this monstrosity by the end of April.

itftc:

"I wish I had one, too, but the wheel fell off"

-schleicher the elder

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

"Shaadi is beset," Isis said. "I must go to him." She was already moving, the outline of her body dissolving into pixels.

"Like hell you're going alone," Marikku said.

"Stay where it's safe," Isis said, pixilated to her knees. Ryou heard what was left unspoken: _Stay with Bakura. Don't let him out of your sight._

"Don't worry," Bakura said flatly. "I'll behave. Unless you'd rather I came along?"

"You'll stay here," Isis said, through gritted teeth. "I won't be but a moment."

"You can't manage," Bakura said. There was a faint mad glimmer in his eyes now. "Not the two of you. Not against a legion of angelics."

"I'll go," Malik said. "I can help."

Marikku and Isis turned on him in a single movement. "Like hell!" they said together. They were blurry to their necks, heads afloat in a cloud of pixels—then their heads, too, had gone, the intense blue of their eyes fragmenting and dispersing.

Bakura stepped dreamily forward, and the whirlwind closed around him.

_He'll die_, Ryou thought, and he lunged. His arms slipped through glittering pixels. For a moment he thought he had missed, that he was too late, and then he heard Mana's cry of alarm, felt the sharp burning pain of displacement—

"Ryou, _no_!"

Mana's hand around his wrist was like a deadweight, dragging him into the deeps. Tearing free of her, he was about to shout—but at the look in her eyes the sound slipped and slid and ended in a gurgle.

"Sorry, Mana-doll," he whispered, and then he was breaking into ten thousand pieces.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

There had been, in all, four hundred and twenty-six successful revolts in the long imperial history of the underworld (seven hundred and twenty-seven when one included usurpations, and the actual number of attempts? as numerous as the stars in the sky). Throughout all of these the strange and shadowy hand of the Twelve, was a constant and heavy presence behind the scenes, guiding many a hapless Shaitan to an untimely and often bloody death. What could you say, really? Centralization had its risks.

It had, therefore, come as a real shock to Shaadi, to stroll boldly into the hall of the Council and find the authorizers of assassination themselves assassinated. The killers had done their best to match the right heads with the right bodies, though there were, oddly enough, quite a few misplaced limbs. Surely, Shaadi thought, identifying pairs of arms and legs could not be so difficult?

Since the atrocities of Elna very little could faze him. Walking alongside the bodies, he counted—seven. The Crown Prince was not among them. Perhaps he had been cut into pieces too small and pulpy to be put back together.

"Bless," Shaadi said. "And twelve minus seven leaves. . .well. _Bless._" There was a vague, slow sadness welling up in his body. He exhaled and turned, creaking, to face the angels who had gathered behind him.

They were watching him, empty-eyed, the frozen set of their faces all the more impressive against the wild flickering of their scimitars. He did a few more calculations. Six score angels. Numbers alone made up for the dearth of mages in their ranks. This was not a fight he would be surviving.

Silently, Shaadi threw his first attack, a basic, brutal slice that parted their ranks and cut open the chest of its intended target. There was no use throwing explosions or calling down the elements—considering the circumstances, such extravagance would be pure idiocy—better to take them down one by one, two by two, until it became desperate. He would save ostentatious display for the final blow. It would be a blast to level the building, and he would die with it. They were not engaging; they meant to overwhelm him with sheer numbers and take him alive. He would not give them the satisfaction, and he would not drag Isis into this.

He would have liked to see her again. . .

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

In his dream, Jou was walking through a sandcastle. He could hear the ocean booming beyond the wet sandy walls. The whole thing was shaking with the rushing of the waves, and the falling sand was gritty in his eyes. He knew this was a castle he and Shizuka had built, long ago, and he also knew, absurdly, that _he_ had not shrunk—the world had simply grown and grown, the ocean become as vast as outer space, an expanding universe.

Inside it smelled of salt and old shells. The walls went on and on, dank and dark, but at the end of them was Otogi.

"Really, now," the vampire said. "You're late."

"You bloodsucking bastard," Jou said, "where did you go?"

Otogi waved a pale hand. "Oh, here and there. Popped off to Russia for a bit, saw some family. Revisited my roots and all. It was awfully warm in Turkey, I must say."

"That's not what I meant," Jou said. He was tiny in the palm of Otogi's hand, and Otogi was looking down at him, smiling beatifically, his incisors shining in the darkness.

"I'm not coming back, kiddo," Otogi said. "I'm going to nice places, where the sun don't ever shine."

The moon was drawing silvery lines along Kaiba's back. The shadowy imprint of Otogi's teeth remained, leering down at him, opening wide to swallow. He breathed out, reached out to trace the line of light on Kaiba's body—and stopped himself, wavering.

"Can't sleep, mutt?" Kaiba said, low.

Jou flushed. "Bad dream, I guess." He wondered what Kaiba had been dreaming about—nothing, maybe. Maybe demons didn't dream.

"Sleep," Kaiba told him. "You'll need it."

"Damn it," Jou said; "I can't. You can't, either. 'S not like I woke you up."

Kaiba sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed with a creak. The indent he had left in the mattress began to warm—slow, crawling, uncomfortable heat. Jou wondered when it was exactly that he had grown used to the cold.

"Get up, then," Kaiba said. He was holding the door open.

Jou clambered out of bed and pulled on his shirt with twitching fingers, and they went silently down the stairs and into the cold. Snow lay in thick gray heaps across the city, stinking of sewage and ash.

"Scared, mutt?" Kaiba said.

The cold was piercing through him, familiar knives in his lungs. He took a deep breath and said, "Yeah, I'm scared. Whatever has your brother—I don't think they're letting him go so easily. We have a box of bombs—they have a castle. And who are we kidding? I can't fucking fight with a sword."

"Mm." Kaiba wasn't looking at him; he was staring up into the sky, into the crisscrossing blue lights.

"Listen," Jou said, "if—" He swallowed. "If something happens to you—tomorrow—Kaiba—I want you to know I've got your brother, okay? I'll look after him. Long as I can. Until I die. Even after I die. I got him. So don't worry about that, okay?"

Kaiba said dryly, "My brother in your hands? _Now_ I'm worried."

"Bastard." Jou followed the demon's gaze up through the clear cold air.

"If anything happens to you," Kaiba said, "your sister—"

"Shizuka," Jou said, and there was a sharp, bitter pain in his chest. He tried to smile. "That's my sister—Shizuka." Shizuka—bright hair like cinnamon. And eyes like—

He realized he couldn't remember.

"If anything happens to you, she will be cared for," Kaiba said. "You have my word on that."

Jou's eyes were burning. He said tightly, "Cool, Kaiba. Thanks."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Shaadi knew pain. He'd had every bone in his back broken in the past. Fingers snapped, feet beaten and crushed, a kneecap ritually removed (he and Isis' father had retrieved it the next week, putting an end to a series of mutilations and sacrifices). The hamstringing was—_new_, let's say—and as he lay there bleeding out he realized the next strike was probably going to take off an arm. He was fairly sure he could ride out the pain. But losing an arm was problematic—it meant they would take him alive after all.

He closed his eyes and started to hum, and he thought of very hot things—sunlight, red sand, burning slums. All of Elna aflame at his feet and the hot black fury of the avenger, the crackling syllables: _Murderer_.

There were blisters forming and blood running molten down his throat when the south wall exploded.

Dust rained down. The flaming scimitar about to do away with Shaadi's right arm extinguished and fell to the ground with a clatter; the charred body of its bearer fell beside it and disintegrated.

Isis came walking through the debris like a queen, arms spread wide, black hair billowing. Every word that dropped from her lips was magic, burning the air.

At her shoulder, Marikku Ishtar glittered gold. In three clenched fists he held a crackling dagger formed of light; in three others, tumbling fireballs. He ducked a swinging blade—

—and Bekhara leapt from behind him, silver and black, bisecting Marikku's attacker with a hoarse exclamation. His fingers were twisting in every direction, knuckles curling grotesquely backward. He was battle-mad already, the eyes brilliantly crimson, shaking with laughter and magic, reeking of blood and myrrh. There was blood trembling already at the corners of his mouth.

"Shaadi," Isis said, serene. "Sorry to be late."

"You should not have come," Shaadi snapped up at her. "You have endangered—"

"Marikku and I," Isis said, "can look after ourselves. You, on the other hand, seem to be having some difficulty."

"Touché," Shaadi said, and he broke the spine of a lunging angel with a sharp blast while Isis sealed the wounds in his legs. "My thanks—Lady Ishtal."

"Most welcome, Lord Shaadi." She hauled him up with one arm. "These seals will not last, and you've lost a good deal of blood already. Have you strength left to fight?"

"Magic enough, but—" He broke off and stared at her, horror growing in his gut. "Isis, we cannot possibly win. Don't tell me you mean to _stay_—"

Over the whirring of wings Bekhara's mad laughter sounded again and again. Two hundred years ago a younger, more idiotic Shaadi might have laughed in the same crazed way and thought, _Oh, she loves me after all._ Now he looked at Isis, drinking in the sight of her, every fiber of him suffused with remorse. _Shaitan. Her father asked me to look after her, and now she's come to _die_ for me—_

"I realize the odds are against us," Isis said. "But I am hardly suicidal—"

"I beg to differ! You've come waltzing into a _legion_ of angelics without so much as an escape plan—"

"Shaadi," she said sharply. "You are not listening. I know the pain has addled your brains, but _listen _to me and _think_. I would not have brought Marikku on a suicide mission! There is an escape plan, but it involves some labor and effort on our part. They have put a seal on the area—we cannot switch out until we are beyond the wards. We must make our way to the street. Marikku—the wall, and quickly!"

Hamstringing had rather negative consequences for normal movement, Shaadi discovered. With Isis gripping him by the elbow on one side and Marikku—sprouting an additional set of arms to keep him steady—on the other, he managed a hobbling gait through the broken wall and into the long hall beyond.

"Shaitan, I'm too old for this," Shaadi gasped.

"Oh, spare me," Isis said. "You'll outlive us yet."

"Careful," Shaadi said, grimacing. "Spoken from your mouth those words may prove prophetic."

The angelics were not so much pursuing as closing in front of them, one rank after another—yet each time Shaadi became certain they would be overwhelmed, Marikku would send forth another blast, Isis another devastating six syllables. Shaadi put his hands on their shoulders, let his magic flow into them, even as he whispered words for swiftness and strength.

"Blast," he heard Isis mutter—just as Bekhara materialized before them, darting out from the darkness.

No, not Bekhara at all—the doppelganger.

"Get back!" Isis shouted at him. "Bekhara will come."

"He won't," the boy said simply. "We'll catch up, Lady Ishtal."

At that moment the seals in Shaadi's legs flickered and collapsed, and he with them, and as Isis bent to minister to him and Marikku circled closer, the boy ran past them and vanished into shadow once more.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

There was a chance he might arrive somewhere else entirely. There was a chance he might _dissolve—_

When he came to he was sprawled across cold stone. Everything ached. The gate of a building loomed ahead, and beyond it rose a yawning black mouth: a hole blasted through the sandstone wall, three figures stepping swiftly through.

"W-_wait—_" A pathetic little wheeze. The jump had _winded_ him, and wasn't that just bloody perfect? Magic with enough soul enough to love and thought enough to make idiotic decisions and lungs enough to keep him from standing. He could pass his hands through solid objects; he could sink inches into the floor; and he couldn't bloody stand.

So he crawled, and kept crawling, faster and faster, until he was on his knees teetering forward, scrabbling at the ground—and finally he hauled himself through the broken wall with his very useless hands, scoring raw lines across his forearms.

_Yes! _he thought, and hissed as his legs buckled, sending his knees smashing into stone. Up again, get _up_, don't think, don't breathe—

_Run._

There is a distinct possibility, said a voice in his mind, that you are running to your death.

Ryou realized he didn't care. He was completely, horribly aware of the burning in his thighs, the sudden weakness in his arms.

It was true he had had a life once: mother, father, sister, Katsuya Jounouchi and the scars to prove their friendship—a tangible body, a home, a bed, city of humans walled by earth. All of it an enchantment; none of it real. But Bakura—

Bakura, shouting in the kitchen, eyes black and angry—the insistent press of lips, the gentle red curiosity that first morning on the auctioning grounds, the long slim hand curling against his cheek, slipping so sweetly down to stroke his neck—Bakura with the mad patched cloak flying, Bakura crumpled on the ground, bleeding from the eyes and nose and mouth—Bakura sitting quietly in the dark, watching him and saying nothing at all. Bakura—

_Bakura is everything_.

_Mana will hate me for this._

Light flying outward: the light of countless angelic scimitars, raised and moving forward in a blazing flood, and standing against them was Bakura, a single figure cloaked in black, spinning, gleaming, curling his fingers and shouting through the blood in his throat.

"_Come!_"

The rustling, burning tide took a single step forward. Scimitars lifted and drew back in unison. Mages raised their arms above their perfect porcelain skulls; their mouths opened in chants. Bakura threw his head back and howled.

Ryou ran.

He came to a wild, spinning halt in front of the glittering scimitars and lunged for the demon, for the eager red smile, the white fingers raised high.

It was silly and maudlin to shout _I love you_—not to mention impractical—_You wretched idiot_ was inappropriate and not at all what he meant—and he could not quite get the breath for it anyway—

"_Hey!_" he screamed, and Bakura heard—and Bakura _reached_—

It burst from their clasped hands in curling tendrils, wrapping all about them, obliterating Ryou's vision. He heard Bakura laugh, shrill and savage; he heard his own mouth echo. And the gold was all around.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

The light of the streetlamps was becoming apparent, harsh and yellow on the rubble before them. Marikku let go abruptly—surprised, Isis let her grip loosen as well. Shaadi sagged to the ground.

"Marikku!" said Isis sharply.

Marikku was frowning. "I'm going back for them."

"Marikku, _no._"

"I won't leave him, Sister," Marikku said, obstinate. "He's saved my life more times than I can—"

"Wait," Shaadi said. The gasp as he had fallen had drawn new, strange air into his body—air that felt charged. There was nausea rising in his gut, and it was from the taste of the air and not his wounds. He pitched his voice until it carried over Marikku's protests: "_Wait_, Marikku—"

Marikku and Isis fell silent. Their mouths parted as they tested the air like serpents—and Isis' eyes began to shine with wonder.

The taste of the magic had shifted, had somehow clarified, grown rounder, a whole note.

And it was _huge_.

"Unholy Shaitan," Marikku breathed, and swore.

"Get down—_get down—_" There was a muffled thump as Isis hooked an arm around her brother's back and forced him into the dust. Her hand was unyielding against Shaadi's neck, holding him where he had fallen; her mouth whispered against his ear, hot and damp, and the shield rose glowing around them.

In an instant it had been engulfed.

Isis' lips were clammy from the effort of keeping the shield; the hand on Shaadi's neck was trembling and cold with sweat. Marikku had rolled sideways and pressed his body into the ward, funneling strength into it. The light had faded, but the magic, the thick, queasy feel of it, stayed heavy around them.

Shaadi twisted around and saw Bekhara and his doppelganger walking hand in hand, graceful, deliberate steps.

Their very skin was shining with it—liquid, molten, _gold_.

Behind them stood not one angelic soldier. There were—pieces—pieces and little else: cold, extinguished scimitars, snapped metallic wings. The walls had been reduced to rubble—everything obliterated in that single hellish blast. The streetlamps had been blown apart and were sputtering their last in the gutters. Everything dust! Amazing that Isis' shield had held—amazing that they had lived through it!

"No," Shaadi said. "No, I can't believe it." He tried to steady his breathing. " My. . ._Shaitan._"

Isis began to laugh. "Realization dawns!" she said, lunging at the wall of the shield to preserve it. "Isn't it _marvelous_! Shaitan below—if we aren't dust already they'll have killed us with the _light_ of it—"

"Turn it off, Bakura!" Marikku yelled, eyes screwed shut against the glare. "Fuck's sake!"

Bekhara and his doppelganger laughed with a single voice.

"Sorry, darling," they said.

The light flared again, a smaller, white-hot blast—and winked out, drowning them in spotty darkness. Then Shaadi heard laughter. Shuffling steps. They came into the street leaning on each other, Bekhara slumped over his doppelganger's shoulders, laughing fit to burst.

The last of the streetlamps died with a pop and bright flash.

"Help," came the doppelganger's voice, faint and smiling. "Help—seriously—he's heavier than he looks—"

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

"Fucking lunatic!" Marikku said. "What a stunt! Scared me half to death."

"What's that?" Bakura said lightly. "The lord of the western lands, quaking in his sandals? Did you offer down a prayer to Lucifer on my behalf?"

Marikku swore. "I'm serious, Bakura. There was no need for you to stay behind—"

"Just leaving them something to remember. . ."

"There aren't any of them left to remember it, now!"

"Hardly a problem about _that_, now is there, my love. . ."

They were making their way slowly up the eastern staircase of the Ishtal castle. Marikku led the way, an orb of light held aloft in one hand. He was swearing at them—mostly at Bakura—with every step. Isis and Shaadi were a full story behind, moving cautiously to prevent the black magic seals in Shaadi's legs from rupturing again. They were quiet, but for the rustling of Isis' robes and the thumping of Shaadi's deadened feet.

Bakura's arm was light across Ryou's shoulders—calculatedly so ("Heavier than I look?" Bakura had said as they switched out from the ruined street. "What insolence! I'll have you beaten with iron rods!"), his fingers tapping a gentle staccato across Ryou's forearm. Every little touch brought with it a warm and heady rush of pleasure. It was a muted echo of what had happened before—nothing like the searing gold that had shot across Ryou's vision and burned through him the instant their hands joined.

The euphoria had faded soon enough to normalcy—_ahh_, Ryou had said, and Bakura with him, _finally_. _Shall we?_ It had been child's play to lift their hands and blast the angels away—utterly, perfectly familiar.

It was only afterward, stumbling forward in the darkness with Bakura's arms about him and Bakura giggling helplessly against his throat that he felt a breathless giddiness. His eyes were smarting; his tongue felt burned and his palms raw and skinned—but they were alive. There was a building lying around him in broken pieces and _they_ had done it and it had been _easy_. Laughter bubbled up. Bakura had stopped trying to walk; the demon had practically buckled, crowing with amusement. It had been all Ryou could do to keep moving—on legs that felt less and less like semi-solid constructs and more and more like water.

_"You're mad," Ryou said. "You're absolutely mad. . ."_

_Bakura, still chortling, said, "Ohh, construct-boy, I love it—when you talk dirty. Hmm. 'Construct-boy' doesn't quite have—the same ring to it—"_

_"Shut up," Ryou said, and in the same breath, "I love you—don't laugh—"_

_"It is customary to laugh—when one is having—h-having—Shai. . .tan! _Having_ hysterics," Bakura said, and he doubled over. Ryou faltered and nearly sank down, but then Marikku was beside them, hoisting Bakura up with one arm._

_"Shaitan, the pair of you—let's get out of here."_

As Marikku reached for the sitting room door, Mana burst from behind it. "Shaitan," she whispered. "I should kill you both."

"Well," Bakura began, "don't hit us, please. It's hardly productive and I cannot afford any more bruises—"

Mana's hands flexed as though she would like very much to do just that—hard and more than once with closed fists. "Don't do this to me again," she said instead. "I have been loyal, Master Bakura. But I am not a summoning. I am not an—an animated _corpse_. If you still see me as such I will leave your service."

The air around them seemed to crystallize.

"I certainly can't let you do that," Bakura said finally, mildly, "knowing you know what you know."

Mana looked shaken, then:

"Is that a threat, sir?"

Bakura's tone was smooth and courteous. "Not at all, Mistress Mana. Your services are valuable to me, and I would rather you remain in my household. Now, hush. No more scenes in the corridor, if you please."

Mana opened her mouth and seemed to think better of it. She glanced at Isis, who had reached them with Shaadi leaning heavily on her, and looked back at Bakura, silent.

Isis raised an eyebrow. "Shall we proceed inside?" she said. "Malik is no doubt waiting within for our safe return."

Malik was indeed waiting for them—he ran from behind the door and began to beat Marikku with a rolled up reed mat. "Motherfucker! What's the idea, huh? Think I can't hold my own? Just going to leave me here to rot? Fuck you! Seriously, fuck you!"

"Habibi—"

Isis moved smoothly past, leading Shaadi to the ornamented divan. Mana did not move. She was still watching Bakura—a level, steady gaze, her arms folded, her mouth tightly closed. Bakura looked blankly back.

"Mana," Ryou said. "Could you go in first?" He flinched as she turned her stare on him. "Please? We won't be long."

"Surely," Bakura said, "we're all friends here? Mistress Mana may stay if she wishes."

Ryou wound the torn hem of his shirt around and around his right index finger. "It's—we—"

"I already know what he wants to say," Mana said flatly. "There's no need for me to hear it again."

She went inside and closed the door quietly behind her.

Bakura chuckled. "My, my. I'd rather face _ten_ angelic armies than Mana in a rage. All right, my darling soul-construct-thingummy, what have you been keeping from me? You know I don't like my servants keeping secrets."

"Ryou," Ryou said. "You never say my name."

"Would you prefer that I did?" Bakura said. "From what I gather, your name is as real as the rest of your history—which is to say, it is an appalling lie. Why keep it when you've shed everything else?"

"Then neither of our current names have any value," Ryou said. "Bekhara bin Elna."

"Shock and horror," Bakura said, monotone. "You have discovered my true identity. I suppose I'd better run for my life before you inform the authorities! Come now, _Ryou_—the beautiful Lady Ishtal has already bludgeoned the issue to death. Surely you have a better reason to pull me aside."

"It's. . .related," Ryou said.

"Oh, by all means, speak in riddles," Bakura said. "I'll stand here and nod and smile, shall I? There is a limit to my patience,_ Ryou._ What_ is it you want to say?_"

Ryou sucked in a breath, and another—_This is it, this is it, it ends now_—

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Shaadi might have been hobbling, but he was keenly aware of the urgency of the situation. Marikku and his half-crazed soul-slave had vanished out the door; Kismet's Mana remained within, sitting sullen and quiet in a corner. Bekhara and his doppelganger lurked just outside, their voices rising and falling in conversation. Very relaxed when one ignored the impending angelic invasion. And Isis wanted to heal his legs? There was no need! Weaker demons had commanded armies from their deathbeds, carried about in palanquins—

So perhaps he _was_ being somewhat unreasonable.

There was a rich gleam in Isis' eyes as she eased him gently onto the divan and bade him to lie still.

"Isis—"

"In a moment," she murmured, pushing back his torn shenti to get at the wounds. There was a sharp pain as she broke the seals; the blood was warm as it began to flow anew down his legs. This time Isis went slowly, creating structured, twelfth-level seals meant to hold.

"Now—" Shaadi hissed as she gave each healed wound a sharp tap "—sit up and tell me everything you know."

He began to relate, breathlessly, all that he had learned—the particulars of Akhenaden's death and his own investigations to the point. He glossed over the loss of the Crown Prince and came quickly to the most devastating piece of news—

"It's the Big Five," he said. "They're in league with the angelics, somehow—no telling if it's the government or just an exceptionally large band of mercenaries—they've assassinated the Council and tried to do away with me—though why I can't imagine."

"The usual suspects, bless them!" Isis said bitterly. She sat on the divan and leaned toward him, head bowed, whispering quick and low. "And I'll tell you why you became a target—you are a relic of the imperial age, and you have always held them in contempt. If you had fawned a bit more in the past they might have considered sparing you.

"I'll tell you another thing," she added. "Without a doubt they've gained the cooperation of the angelic government—or a body of their government. Covert ops perhaps. But no mercenary band ever holds such a large percentage of mages—certainly not so many trained in military formations. Were you aware Bekhara's castle has come under attack by angelic mages? I doubt it was an isolated incident. You've been sloppy, Shaadi."

"Heat of the moment," Shaadi protested. "Never mind it. I won't do it again. But we must _act_."

"How?" Isis said. "You may think I'm all for charging empty-handed into enemy ranks, but I tell you—we can hardly fight the whole angelic army. With what soldiers? With what funds? The great mages of the Council are dead, and the rest have scattered across the country and are no doubt occupied with their own troubles. There is no network, no means of contacting them, and no guarantee of their cooperation. They, too, have split into factions. It's possible the angelics have struck them, too, else some of them may be allies of the Big Five. We can trust no one but ourselves, and you and I are wounded and tired."

"There's no need to bring anyone else into this," Shaadi said swiftly. "Crump and his bunch will be expecting us to seek allies, to go underground. They're prepared to root us out. In terms of resources the Big Five can certainly outlast us in a long-term war. I say, surprise them—attack now, before they get a firm grasp on power. We need only strike once."

"With what means?" Isis repeated. "We are but two."

"We are _six_," Shaadi said. "Kismet's Mana and—I'm sorry, Isis, but we will need your brother—"

"That's four, Shaadi," Isis said, beginning to speak more slowly. "Are you perhaps still in pain? Do you need—"

"No, no," Shaadi said impatiently. "Don't you see? We have the ultimate weapon in our hands already."

Isis' nostrils flared. "What!" she snapped, and drew back, mouth thinning in displeasure. "Shaadi, that is _insane_. _Bekhara? _He is the berserker of eighty years ago! He cannot be controlled. His motives are questionable—hehas _attacked_ you; he is a traitor to the throne!"

"Aren't we all, these days?" Shaadi said wryly. "Did he go into a rage today? He did not; he saved my life—my life and yours, and the life of your brother. Did he level the city? He did not. He did not because he had that boy beside him—"

"—Shaadi—"

"—because they are a _pair_, a matched set, the first Golden in centuries! The Big Five cannot possibly expect this. They cannot possibly counteract it."

"We don't know how it is triggered; we do not know how to control it or stop it. The boy is hardly stable—he isn't physically _real_. Their connection is tenuous, and Bekhara is half-mad! I will _not_ expose my brother to—"

She stopped and drew a long, long breath.

"I admit we are pressed for time," she said, more gently, "but you have not convinced me—not in the least, Shaadi. You have told me the Big Five's movements, but you have not discovered their true motive. If it is to kill the Atemuyami, then why attack Bekhara? If it is to seize power, then why attack Bekhara? All our theories collapse when we add this single factor. There is more to this plan of the Big Five's than you think. Yes, time is short, but what we truly cannot afford is to act in haste and risk losing all."

From the corner of the room, Kismet's Mana cleared her throat and said, "Lady Ishtal, you're wrong."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

The wounds in Mana's back throbbed—dull, nauseating pounding. She had tried to cast a cooling enchantment and had found she had not had the magic for it. There was a sick, sad lump in her stomach, and _that_ had not come from the pain. All this time with Bakura—looking after him, fighting for him—well, she had never had any illusions about the nature of their relationship. He was flighty, quite nearly mad.

But _Ryou_.

It had been a sensible decision. She could see that—she wasn't blind to that. She was weak and wounded and in no fit state to go marching against angelic legions. But Ryou wasn't even _tangible_. Shaitan, sitting there, watching Malik pace, twisting her fingers—useless fingers! all the time wondering if—

Shaitan, she could have killed him! Brainless—obsessed—

Isis and Shaadi were arguing and arguing. They were both wrong. She would have found it amusing were she not so exhausted and _sickened_—

"Lady Ishtal," she said, "you're wrong."

There was a lull.

"What?" Isis said at last. "How can that be?"

_Fuck-bless Shaitan in a bronze hourglass I shouldn't have opened my mouth. _But she started to explain anyway, slowly and deliberately, trying to work through the aches. "You know of the angelic attack on our castle, perhaps," she said. "But you cannot know—only Marikku knows—of the visit the Big Five paid us."

"Shaitan," Shaadi said, quiet, shocked, and for a moment Mana was viciously glad.

"They knew Bakura's identity; they confronted him," she said. "I was there when they came. I was there when they tried to kill him. They must have hoped he would join them. And if he refused, they knew already how to kill him."

"How, then?" Isis asked—a little _too_ eagerly, Mana thought.

"The grave faerie," Mana said. _Pretty little Sara._ "They tore her from him—used her as a mirror to reflect his own power. And it would have killed him if he had been alone—"

"The _doppelganger_," said Shaadi.

"Their plan failed, so they sent the angelic brigade to deal with him. Right now, the only thing they cannot know for certain is that Bakura is still alive. But they will not take that chance. They can assume the blast killed us all—but they won't. It is far safer for them to treat the situation as though Bakura is still alive and hell-bent on revenge."

"So," Isis said, "a single offensive attack will be the _worst_ thing we can do."

"No," Mana said. She looked between them, at Master Mahaado's friend and companion and at the demoness who had read Mahaado his fate—odd how they were speaking like equals—odd how she could see and understand so much more than they! And she ached. Mahaado would have managed this. He would have seen it right away, stopped the madness before it began.

_Mahaado is not here. Mahaado is dead, and Bakura's library has blown up, and Mahaado will never come back—Shaitan, the blood Shaitan my back hurts. No. _

Focus_, blessit._

"No," she repeated. "It's exactly what we should do. The Big Five have tried so many times to kill Bakura—why? He's an unknown; he's as good as dead—that's what I thought. But I realized the only reason they could _ever_ want him dead is because they will be unable to deal with him at full strength. When all the parts of Bakura have been combined, the Big Five are powerless against him—_and they know it_. They have tried to strike the parts when those parts were still divided—beginning with Bakura, the only piece whose identity was certain. Ryou's existence and sudden reappearance in the underworld was something they could not have expected—as far as they knew, the other pieces of Bakura's magic had broken off and been destroyed.

"Bakura is powerful, but he's no hero. They think they have neutralized Bakura, weakened him for the time being. They think he will hide away to lick his wounds because he is that kind of demon. Nor do they know that we have come to _you, _Lady Ishtal. You must see it. The time to attack is _now_."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

In the chill gloom of a subterranean chamber, the Crown Prince of Hell was coming slowly back to himself. The madness was receding; guilt sat heavy in his stomach and the shackles were tight and cold around his wrists. There was a tingling numbness in his hands, bloodless now after so many hours chained above his head. He had seen these rooms before, long ago, from a rather different perspective—gazing down at the shattered feet of a prisoner—a would-be poisoner, Akhenaden had explained, leading him back up the winding staircase. _They have broken every bone in her feet. They will begin with her fingers tomorrow._

Yami flexed his own stiff fingers and rubbed the tips together. Little flames crackled and licked at his fingernails. It was enough warmth to protect his hands from the cold. A snap could generate considerably more, and under normal circumstances would have melted his chains as well, but—

He tried again—barely a flicker. _Bless._ Well. It would have been wildly out of character for wily Shaitan to build a prison that did _not_ mute his captives' magic.

He gave his chains a yank, on the off chance the links had rusted through. No luck.

The feeling of hands lingered: soft, fleshy finger pads forcing his wrists into manacles, snapping the shackles in place about his ankles—that was it. Grunts—laughter—light burning his eyes. _ Oh, he's coming round. What a puppy! Striking resemblance to his mother, don't you think? _

_Gansley—the Angelis general requests audience. _

_Coming, coming._

_Be good, now, your highness._

Ah, that _smile_. The little bird man. Crump.

For a brief, absurd moment, Yami wondered what they had done to Yuugi. Maybe in the next cell—the thought of the plump little wrists chafing under those filthy cuffs—

_Oh._

Shame flooded him, hot and sick. Shaitan, he'd been out of his mind.

They were going to kill him. He'd deserve it, too. Yuugi—devils, _Yuugi_—

Yami slumped in his shackles and groaned.

"Will you quit it?" said a voice crossly. "Yeah, it really sucks, but crying about it isn't gonna help."

Yami pivoted as much as the chains would allow and saw the boy standing beyond the bars of his cell, physically unrestrained but practically glowing with magic in the darkness. He was slight of build, looking a bit starved, gray-eyed and black-haired and wearing a torn and dirty shift. There was something like biting frost in the gray stare. The jaw, childish and soft and shivering with the cold, was set, the teeth clenched—he had seen it all before, somewhere. Even the voice was familiar, though he couldn't place it.

"Seriously," the boy said. "We can talk if you want, but we need to keep it down. My brother will be here any minute."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Marikku's lover was stubborn. "You are fucking taking me with you this time," he said. "Got it, Marikku? Are we clear on this?"

"No," Marikku said.

"Don't be ridiculous," Isis said. "Against angelics you'd only be a liability."

"Lady Ishtal," the human boy said, "I love your brother. I love this bastard; I want to protect him; and I am fucking ace with knives." He turned to Marikku, his eyes deadly serious. "I'm going with. This time you're not going to get the jump on me. We're clear on this. We're clear as fucking crystal."

"If I may," Shaadi said lightly, "seven is better than six." He met Isis' stare without flinching. _Shaitan! if looks could kill! _"Isis, he may tip the scales in our favor."

"I'll look after him," said Mana suddenly. The doppelganger glanced at her—a timid little flick of the eyes—and reddened.

Isis started. "Kismet's Mana, this is a serious handicap—"

"She doesn't have to," the boy interrupted. "Look, I can handle myself. My father was a fucking sorcerer, okay? The last time was a fluke."

"We're wasting time," Bekhara said flatly. "Let the boy come."

"Well," Isis said finally, "if _you_ have no objections, Bekhara—" She sounded rattled, Shaadi thought. It was clear she had been expecting vehement protest, an acerbic refusal—some form of bitter opposition from the berserker. They had both been expecting it. Shaadi had opened his speech with promise of a pardon—the erasing of records. The official death of Bekhara bin Elna.

_I seem to have heard that somewhere before, _Bekhara had said. _Make your case, Shaadi. Save your promises. _I_ promise nothing._

_Now_, there was no resistance. Bekhara looked out the window, quiescent. His lidded eyes were dull and soft as coal.

Something had changed—Shaadi had seen it the moment Bekhara and his doppelganger reentered the room. The berserker's entire demeanor had altered—the haughtiness vanquished. He seemed to be lost in thought, his fingers knotting absently in the folds of his cloak.

_Ominous_.

"Right, then," Shaadi said. He pushed away all thoughts of disaster. "Let's go to war."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

A/N: That's that! It will probably be another three or four months before chapter twenty-one arrives. That said, we are very, very close to the grand finish. The Boss Battle, basically!


End file.
